


Me and the Devil

by missmarycontrary



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Complete, Corruption, F/M, First Time, Kind of AU, Multi, Sansa gets a clue, Seduction, Self-Discovery, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-28
Updated: 2017-05-06
Packaged: 2017-12-27 19:51:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 29
Words: 41,469
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/982940
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/missmarycontrary/pseuds/missmarycontrary
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Alayne remembers who she is and goes on a journey of self-discovery - her aim? To finally hold some power of her own, particularly over her supposed rescuer, Petyr Baelish.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Mirror Mirror

Alayne stared into the looking glass in front of her, contemplating the letter grasped in her shaking hands. She knew it was something no high-born lady should read, and yet the words seamed seared into her brain, enticing and forbidden and exciting. Folding it neatly, she tucked it away, and returned to study her reflection; but understanding the girl she saw was increasingly difficult.

Alayne Stone was no high-born lady. Her very name spoke of her bastard status, make-believe as it was. But as much as she tried to forget it, and once upon a time would have desperately forsaken it for the illusory glamour of Kings Landing, she felt the Stark wolf awakening within her.

What would her father have thought of her now, if he had come to the Eyrie, and she had been just a bastard girl bringing wine to his table? Would he have thought she was kind and skilled, using a woman’s instincts to appease the sickly lord of the Vale? Would he have seen another court manipulator, such as those he detested, weaving the weaknesses of others to their advantage? Or would he just see a little bird, doing what she was told? She wondered if he could have seen a Stark if he looked into her eyes.

Her father would never have pretended to be a thing he was not. It was the very thing which she was always told was his weakness, his inability to lie, his honour. But she knew it was his strength. It was the dishonesty of others which was to blame for the relentless disappointments and horrors of her short life, and the end of her father’s.

And yet.

Staring back into her glass, she found herself looking at a girl – a woman – who had learnt the rules of an unnamed game. A woman whose experiences enabled her to see through lies, and play to the weak wills of others. She was no longer a naive fool, dreaming of gowns and romance. Now, she was a woman whose dreams had come true, only to reveal themselves as nightmares in disguise. Now she was a woman with the power to avenge.

Was vengeance honourable?

She found herself imagining what Arya would have done. Arya would not be silently living amongst those who had destroyed their lives. Arya would take up a sword and fight. Sansa could not take up a sword, but she knew she had weapons. Cersei’s words rose unbidden to the front of her mind. The best weapon is what a woman has between her legs.

Sansa Stark had always done what was expected of her, and more. No one expected much from Alayne Stone, and yet she behaved to the standards of another life. She remembered the bawdy tales of Randa Moyce. She remembered Kings Landing, and how everything revolved around fucking. Petyr was powerful because he sold people the warmth of someone else’s body, moments of relief. People wanted Sansa's body as much as they wanted her birthrights. Alayne had no birthrights, but people still seemed to crave her cunt.

She stood up and examined her reflection. Loosening the ties of her heavy robe she let it drop from her shoulders, watching the muscles moving beneath her skin. The slight tinges of bruises which refused to fade seemed a reminder of another life. But it wasn’t ‘another’; it was all her life. Because she was not Alayne Stone. _I am Sansa Stark_. Not the Sansa Stark who was an innocent girl from the North, but the sum total of a lifetime of experiences. Sansa Stark didn’t have to be one of two personas anymore. She was both.

Her chemise, too, she shrugged to the floor, until she was naked before the mirror. It was true, she knew, that she was attractive. She was tall, her breasts small enough to be graceful, but big enough to show her a woman. The red hair between her legs proved her a Tulley.

She ran her hand down her stomach, enjoying the cool smoothness of her skin, raising goose pimples. She found it fascinating to watch as her nipples hardened, and a tremble moved through her. She’d felt this feeling before, the start of something, a kindling within her, but only for a moment. This time she would follow where it led.

Leaving one hand hovering over her stomach, she slid another up her neck and into her hair, pulling lightly at the roots until a low moan escaped her lips. Something twinged between her legs. She could see her reflection blushing, but she felt no shame. It was like the reflection was yet another incarnation of her, different but the same.

She knew how love-making – fucking – worked, in principle. So as she ran her hand down, fingers weaving in to the soft curly hair, she expected pleasure to follow only after some pain. But as she brushed against – something, what was this thing?! – her knees buckled and her hand slammed in to the washstand in front of her. She didn’t stop, her hand moving instinctively towards her core, the wetness coating her fingers, but her thumb brushed against that nub again, trying to find that pleasure, succeeding, her finger pushing inside herself – she stifled a groan as she felt herself clench tight. She looked at the letter again, and remembered to take a deep breath. She worked another finger inside, easier this time.

For a moment she looked at herself in the mirror, two fingers buried inside herself, hair sticking to her shining skin. She brushed that nub, feeling the blood pool in it, understanding in one moment why the world seemed to revolve around this. She pictured the moments she’d felt this before, during a battle, and in the snow. The latter, his face, Petyr’s face – another finger inside. Littlefinger, Littlefinger. Her thumb brushed against her once more, her other hand tugging at her teat, and suddenly it seemed that her entire body was on fire, alive, her eyes wanted to shut but she refused to let them, watching herself, she rubbed again – and came apart. Her legs seemed to turn to jelly and she dropped to the floor. She left her fingers inside, stretching herself. Sansa. Alayne. Littlefinger.

With a kind of detached, sinking feeling she withdrew her fingers, and without a second thought licked them clean. For the first time she felt powerful, and she knew what she had to do if she wanted to maintain the feeling over the most powerful men in the land – and one in particular.


	2. Moon Tea

Learning how to make moon tea had been the hardest part. A question in a whispered conversation with Myranda – ‘ _but what of... unwanted consequences?_ ’ – gave her a recipe, usually reserved for the Maesters or wise women. However it was finding tansy, the vital ingredient, which had been nigh impossible, until she befriended the boy who worked the gardens; a friendship from which she learnt a great many things.

The Eyrie was not the lushest or most fertile land in the world, and its courtyards were barren of anything of particular use to Sansa. Things were easier once she found access to the kitchen herb garden, but the tansy still eluded her. Randa had hinted such potent plants were the domain of Maesters, but the Eyrie was evidently beyond the reach of the Order. In any case, she knew that a Maester would have too many unwanted questions about the lie she had so carefully prepared. It was why she had found herself in the servants’ quarter, approaching the bustling kitchen with trepidation, ensuring she stayed far enough away to go unseen by the dutiful cooks and servants. She hid in a small alcove, set into the wall of the dark corridor, until the young man she was waiting to see emerged from the room. He was followed by a billow of steam and the sweet smell of roasting meat before the heavy door slammed shut. He carried a rough open sack of root vegetables, still coated in dirt and ice. She stepped out of her dark alcove and called his name.

‘Bosley!’ The boy turned to the noise, and seeing her face, stumbled, dropping his load to the floor.

‘M’lady?’ he said, bowing, ‘what are you doing down ‘ere?’ He leaned to pick up the onions, carrots and potatoes rolling across the stones. However he seemed to reconsider midway, unsure whether he needed to concentrate on Sansa, and rose awkwardly, awaiting an answer.

His confusion empowered her. It reminded her of the status and authority she held even in the guise of a bastard, and that she still had the ability to coerce him more forcefully, if it came to that. Following her instincts she stepped closer to him. The movement of her gown brushed against his ankles and he almost jumped back, but managed to remain, staring warily.

‘There is no need to be formal, Mister Bosley, you know I am but a bastard.’ Before he had chance to react to so bold a statement, she dropped to her knees, gathering the forsaken vegetables into the sack. Preparing the bashful and needy persona which she so often had cause to use when appeasing Sweetrobin, she looked up at him through her eyelashes, but quickly feigned an inability to look him directly in the eye. It was her best Maergery Tyrell impression. Breathily, she continued: ‘I am in need of help and I need someone I can trust, and who has the necessary knowledge, and I can think of no one other than you. Please say you can help me!’

When she looked back to him his mouth was agape, but close to smiling. She fought to keep her face looking helpless; but silently she congratulated herself. Yes. Men could not resist a woman begging. As she had learnt in Kings Landing, they would always make you beg for mercy somehow.

He dropped down too, still staring at her. ‘Of course m’lady. Whatever you wish. But I don’t know what I can do for you that other better men wouldn’t be willing to do. They’d throw ’emselves in the dirt just to keep your pretty feet clean. Respectfully, ma’am.’

She smiled bashfully. His flattery came fast and easy, and she suspected the rumours of his success with the women of the Eyrie were true enough. He would know what she was asking of him when the question came.

‘Please,’ she whispered, looking around as if someone could approach any moment (though of course she knew that this corridor was rarely used, only really for access to the preserving room and the garden, and most of the inhabitants of this tower were busy serving visitors in the Crescent Chamber, and would be for hours to come). Bundling the full sack into his arms and rising, she tugged at his sleeve, beckoning him towards the alcove from which she’d just emerged. He followed her dutifully, leaning his load against the wall and squeezing in to the narrow gap with Sansa.

The choice of hiding space had not been accidental. For a moment, Sansa pondered how this was the closest she’d ever willingly been to a man who was not a member of her family, before pushing the thought to the back of her mind. Bosley was tall, and looked strong. She could see from this proximity that his skin was shining with exertion from the kitchen. He had an earthy smell to him, so unlike the perfumed noble men she was accustomed to being around, or the sweaty odour of Joffrey’s brutal Kingsguard.

‘Ser,’ – flattery could go both ways - ‘I will be as plain as I can be while protecting the honour of the lady in question. A dear friend of mine has found herself in a position – oh, I don’t know how to say it.’ She sighed, resting a hand delicately on Bosley’s arm. The novelty of it thrilled her. She knew that even if they were seen, few would judge her, a bastard child. It would not be the end of her prospects for ever. But the thought of Lord Baelish’s wrath was enough to ensure that she had taken every possible precaution to avoid that eventuality. ‘She has met a man, and they could not restrain themselves. Please excuse my brashness, Bosley, but I don’t know how else to say it. I told her she must take precautions – take tea. Do you know what I speak of, Ser?’  He nodded, staring intently. ‘I have everything I need to make it for her, or to teach her how – but we have no way of getting the main ingredient. I believe it’s known as tansy?’

She awaited another nod. She could see his reluctance. To admit he knew of it was to suggest that he was no stranger to the unwanted consequences of lust, and the methods of avoiding it. But with a glance down at the hand which was now gripping his arm, he nodded again.

‘Yes, m’lady Alayne. I know of it.’

‘Thank the gods. I have been unable to find it anywhere. She must have it, and I could think of nobody I could trust to ask without being accused of needing it for myself... I know you tend to the kitchen gardens. Do you know if it could be grown, Bosley?’

Something seemed to dawn to him, and with a knowing smirk he said ‘ah! So you’re the little devil who’s been stealing my mint!’ She nodded, seemingly embarrassed. She’d intentionally torn the plant in the kitchen garden in a messy and obvious manner, and was glad he’d noticed that it was gone. Further evidence of her naivety was useful.

‘Oh! And I thought I was being so clever, sneaking in to the gardens like that. Now you see why I need you.’ Her hand dropped to his wrist, one finger extended, almost stroking. ‘I do so need you, Bosley.’


	3. The Garden

_Everyone wants something, Alayne. And when you know what a man wants you know who he is, and how to move him._

She remembered the words well, and she strove to understand all the words of the men around her, and their hidden meanings. When Littlefinger asked her for kisses, she thought long and hard about what he could be gaining. She looked like her mother; mayhaps it simply gave him pleasure to kiss her? She thought it likely, but only as one reason of many.

When Bosley had taken her to the secret garden where he surreptitiously grew tansy for the women of the Vale, she had listened attentively to his explanations of how best to use it. His hand rested on the small of her back as they knelt to pluck it from the ground, him showing her how to take the leaves, her wrapping it in a scrap of cloth she had folded up her sleeve. She listened to his advice for brewing it, even though she had learnt it all already. She knew that he, as many men did, was treating her as somewhat of a child. But even Sansa could recognise that the look in the eyes as he watched her spoke of something more adult.

It was not that she was unafraid of what she planned to do – but that fear came from a lack of knowledge, not a lack of confidence, and a lack of knowledge could only be rectified one way. She turned to him, thus shifting his hand to the curve of her hip, where he seemed to have no issue with leaving it. She clasped his other hand as they rose to their feet, suddenly very intimately positioned, holding each other as if to dance. He was staring at her mouth, so she briefly bit at her bottom lip, trying to imitate the nervousness she had felt around Joffrey in those first few weeks.

‘I cannot express my thanks, Bosley. This will really be such a help. And I collect more whenever I like?’

‘Of course, just be sure to leave time for the plant to recover. But what you ’ave there should last you plenty, if you press it properly.’ He hesitated momentarily, then his grip on her side tightened slightly. ‘Have you ever tried it yourself?’

The question was purposefully ambiguous.

‘Moon tea?’

‘Of course. What else could I possibly mean m’lady?’ Their clasped hands, hanging by their sides, felt conspicuous, and sweaty.

‘No, not yet- I mean, no, no I haven’t.’ She grinned shyly, trying to use her very real nerves as part of the performance,  wondering where it ended and she began.

‘Oh, not yet, eh? You ‘ave those pretty little eyes on someone?’ His hand slid from her side to her neck, and she shuddered under his touch. ‘Pardon my boldness, Alayne, but I think I’d like a kiss for my hard work.’

Before she had time to feign shock he was kissing her, roughly, his fingers weaving between the intricate braids of her hair, Sansa’s arm bent uncomfortably back as he wrapped his arm around her without letting go of her hand. Soon his tongue was probing between her clasped lips, until a quiet moan opened her mouth enough for him to gain entry. After a few moments she echoed his movements, their kiss hot and wet, tongues exploring. Sansa felt that feeling again, a burning in the pit of her stomach that made her want to get as close to his body as she could, like there was a rope winding around them, pulling them together.

They broke apart suddenly as he checked that the garden was clear, before dragging her to a dark corner, shaded by large wooden beams and fencing. For a moment she noted the twisted vines of the runner beans and plants. It was almost as though she were outside of her body, looking at the pair of them from afar. It seemed surreal. But she was quickly pulled back to reality when he shifted his grip on her hand, pulling it between them and pressing it to the front of his breeches. He groaned and thrust into her hand, pushing her against the wall, pressing their bodies together as his other hand came to cup her breast, then start undoing the ties of her bodice.

‘Gods, yes, that’s it. Have you done any of this before, Alayne?’

She was startled by the hardness under her hand and could barely think to answer. It was hot against her skin even through his smallclothes and the material of his breeches. She looked to his face; even applying the merest pressure seemed to cause his eyes to roll back and his lips to part in pleasure. She shook her head as he pulled at the material of her bodice and then chemise, before his cold hand cupped her bare breast. They both moaned at the sensation of her hardening nipple pressing at his skin, and Sansa was briefly dismayed when, seeing her denial, he removed his hand to roughly pull at his own laces.

Within a moment Sansa had full view of that thing which had been so mysterious, that thing which the world seemed to revolve around entirely. It stood proud against his belly, pink and sore looking, desperate to be touched, and she found herself imagining it sinking deep within her. He kissed her again, roughly, tongues battling, gasping for breaths, before pulling her hand to his cock once more, and wrapping her fingers around the length. It was softer that Sansa had imagined, for something that looked so angry and harsh.

‘Fuck yes, that’s it, stroke it up and down – not too fast, yes, just there.’ The bend of her wrist throbbed but she did as she was told, eager to learn. Soon her breasts were in his hands again, as he muttered words about her glorious tits under his breath. His head dropped and he took one hardened bud in his mouth, rolling it between his teeth.

She hissed with the intense pleasure, her grip on his cock inadvertently tightening, causing him to thrust forward into her hand. She took this as a good omen and kept her hold tight, her own heat building in her smallclothes.

‘Don’t forget you ‘ave two hands, sweetling- stroke my balls, there you go.’ She almost giggled at the absurdity of it, the ease of it all, but moved her other hand from his neck to play with his testicles as asked. He grunted, and Sansa could sense whatever happened next was coming soon, but her hand was cramped and she needed to move. She took a step to the side and dropped to her knees, looking for a better position. She decided on looking at his length from the side, and quickly returned to pumping it up and down, tickling the bundle of flesh beneath. Her hand was dry, so she spread the white liquid leaking from the head on her hands and down his length.

His hands slammed into the wall in front of him, looking for something to grip.

‘Gods, Alayne, I’m nearly – you’re a natural. A bit harder, yes, like that.’ He looked down at her, kneeling there, breasts exposed to the air, her skin red from his nibbles and kisses. ‘Fuck, just give me a kiss, Alayne, I’m so close.’

She started to rise but a hand on her shoulder kept her on the floor.

‘No, gods, you are innocent. Kiss me right on the end of my cock, keep stroking it though...’

His head fell back as she considered the bizarre request. Well, if this is something that is done, and gives pleasure, she supposed it was good to know. She was here to learn; and any discomfort she felt with the idea she dismissed quickly. She was another character now, a woman who would have no problem with such an act. She shifted to the side slightly and leant forward, and wetting her lips, placed a light kiss on the tip of his cock, feeling the juices smearing on her lips.

He let loose a low and long groan, and one hand flew to her head, moving her aside, gripping tightly at her plaited hair. After a few more strokes he shuddered, and more of the white juices landed on the wall opposite them in thick ropes. He swore under his breath, panting heavily. He observed her awed expression with a look of pride, before helping her to her feet.

‘Yes, you’re a fucking natural, Alayne Stone.’


	4. Liars

**Author's note** : Ok, you know what, the majority of chapter is so pwp I feel I have to warn you. What can I say, my Sansa is a bad ass. Enjoy.  
  
  
Before she left that garden Sansa felt she’d learnt as much as it was useful to learn. They both knew it was too dangerous to spill his seed inside her, so after reassuring her that only he used the garden, he had lain her on the rough ground, among the plants, pulled up her skirts, and used his fingers and tongue to brink her to that peak she was starting to love. She tried not to writhe under his attentions but soon she was wantonly spreading her legs wide, clutching his head between them with desperation, begging him for satisfaction. Who knew a tongue could bring so much pleasure in so many ways?

Once they’d rearranged themselves he said he’d have to go, that he’d be missed in the kitchen by now. He brushed leaves from her hair and gave her a last rough kiss. She said she wanted to learn more but that it wasn’t safe to see him too often, and that she’d come to him when the time was right. He told her he’d teach her all manners of things she could do with her mouth, when that time came.

She hurried back to her solar with a heady feeling of euphoria. She wanted more of that; she wanted it in various ways, positions and places. Not just her pleasure, but the ability to utterly control it in someone else.

She returned to him the next week, in the middle of the afternoon. They met in an abandoned chamber, often used for this purpose according to Bosley, where he taught her how to use her mouth, as promised. He told her how much pressure to use, how to use her tongue; when to withdraw her head, or when not to if she so pleased. When he had finished, he used his fingers on her, fast and rough, until she too came off. Afterwards he collapsed against her, and she felt that his hardness had returned, pressing into the small of her back. It was like a game between them, but Sansa couldn’t avoid a feeling of frustration at the knowledge that it couldn’t be played to its natural conclusion.

So instead, she experimented with getting him to beg as she begged. She pulled and stroked at him until he shuddered, and then stopped. Bosley had looked down with a confused expression, the feeling of conclusion hanging in the air but failing to materialise. He tried to move her hand for her, but she would not let him. She pumped her hand up and down one more time, and then stopped again. She only continued when the word ‘Alayne’ had become a desperate chant. Moving down on the bed to take him in her mouth again, out of curiosity mainly, she allowed him to urge her head further down as his seed spurted out of him. It had a curious taste and Sansa struggled to keep it in her mouth initially – but a few deep breaths were all she needed to calm herself. 

In return for her kindness Bosley answered every question Sansa could think of, about men and women, tastes and bedroom acts, the strange and weird and wonderful. Did all men want the same things? Near enough, he replied. A pretty girl naked on his lap.

She wanted so badly to ask him what he thought Lord Baelish would like, but there was absolutely no way she could phrase the question that wouldn’t arouse his suspicions. So she left the chamber unsatisfied, in that regard at least. Bosley seemed unperturbed by Sansa’s lack of devotion, her eagerness to leave; there relationship was a dalliance, and could be nothing more. They knew this, even as they stroked each other’s bodies, reminding each other of it as they brought themselves to the edge.

Once they were tired and done, and the door had slammed shut behind her, Sansa knew she had to get back to her rooms quickly. Her hair was mess, she could smell him on her skin, and the taste of him was still in her mouth, despite a glass of the wine he had brought with him. The thought of being seen in such a state both thrilled and appalled her. When she was nearly at her door she paused mid-stride, thinking of all she had accomplished in so short a time, how she had grown, what she was doing. She was proud of herself, for the first time in a long while. But a voice startled her from her reverie.

‘Alayne, I have had people looking for you everywhere. Where have you been?’ With a start she looked up; into the frustrated face of Littlefinger. He was stood, looking impeccable, his mockingbird pin shining at his neck. But his face spoke of his annoyance and impatience.

‘My lord -Father- sorry-’ she stumbled over her words. She was not ready for this; she would never be ready for this. _We are all better liars than you._ How had a few seedy games with a kitchen boy made her think she was ready to lie to a man who did it by his very nature? Ready to drive a man wild with desire who spent his life teaching others how to do that very thing?

‘I was exploring... I haven’t seen much of the castle beyond my rooms.’ Don’t give too many details. Don’t seem concerned. His advice echoed in her ears, and as it did, she felt her confidence grow. He had no reason to suspect her. He had nothing to prove. She had just been exploring. ‘You didn’t tell me there was so much to see, you made it out to be so cold and empty.’

He didn’t reply for what seemed an age. He was staring at her, leaving a silence that she knew was a trap. He was waiting for her to stumble in, chasing excuses, allowing him to catch her in the lie. She was not so simple as to fall for that. She shaped her face into something close to confusion, or daughterly fear.

‘Sorry, my Lord, have I done something wrong? I needed some time to myself, that’s all. Have I been missed?’

He remained silent for a long, agonising moment. She could feel her heart racing, her palms sweating – when suddenly he stepped forward and took her in his arms. His chest was hard and warm against hers.

‘Of course, sweetling, as you always are. Sweetrobin was most upset when he wanted to see you, but you were nowhere to be found. What did you discover on your travels?’

She was clenched against his chest in a tight hold, but she couldn’t help but sigh and relax against him, enjoying the steady beat of his heart, his arms around her.

‘Not a great deal. I looked around the chambers and kitchens. They were afraid to talk to me in there.’

‘Rightly so. You are the daughter of a powerful man, Alayne. To meddle with you wouldn’t be worth the risk.’ His hand crept up to her neck, bracing her as he dropped his face to take in a deep breath from her hair. ‘Would it, Alayne?’

‘No, father.’


	5. Caught Unawares

It wasn’t until she was alone that her terror caught up with her. For a brief moment she’d felt like she’d wasted an opportunity, a chance to demonstrate her new worldly ways. But the moment she sat on her bed and ran her fingers through her tangled hair, she realised how close she had come to real danger. She would have to be a lot more careful. _I am not indispensable_.

It had been so hard to gather the courage she had needed, to do what she had done over the past days. She felt something very important had changed within her. So she could not regret doing them; but the more she considered it, the more she realised that her self-imposed lessons had been severely lacking from the start.

Bosley had simply wanted her, and it had been obvious; as it was with other men who wanted her, and were desperate to have her. All she had had to do was give the slightest suggestion that she reciprocated his feelings. With him, she had not had the usual barrier of being a noble lady with a noble lord. She was just a bastard child, and he was a baseborn man, and a baseborn man and a lord’s bastard daughter could fuck in the dirt of a kitchen garden if they so chose.

She did not have such freedom with Littlefinger. He knew who she was, and though he tried to make her forget it, they both knew that all their plans depended on the fact she was high-born, and she had to act like it - even when he didn’t treat her that way. He would never give in to lust for her, if indeed he even felt it. And he would see through any games she tried to play, if she was not smart enough – he had always been able to spot the smallest change in her. If she acted the harlot he would be able to make her feel the fool again with a few simple words.

She needed to talk to him. She had been so wrapped up in her adventures and her own world that his absence was starting to weigh on her. She couldn’t put a name to the feeling – it was nothing akin to love, as she knew it. He was fascinating, dangerous even, and yet she felt safer by his side than anywhere else. She would not want to be an opponent of Petyr Baelish. It was important that he never saw her as an obstacle to his plans, because that would be the day she was no longer of any use to him. People who were of no use to him did not survive long.

He wouldn’t be in his room yet; he had told her he had business to attend to with visitors from Gulltown, before leaving her alone in the corridor, his warmth still hanging in the air. He had firmly suggested to her that she should attend to Robert as soon as possible, in that way of his which made it clear it was an order. So she hurriedly finished rearranging her hair and clothes, as much as she could, and wiped herself clean between her legs. Then she drank from the goblet of cold moon tea she had stored in her privy – she wouldn’t have thought of it, if she hadn’t been advised by Myranda Royce, who had heard tales of children being made even without a man being inside a woman.  Sansa was taking no risks. The moon tea was watered down in case anyone should smell or taste it, and she was glad she’d thought of that; now Lord Baelish had been caught unawares by her ‘exploring’, he would take more care to know what she was doing. She feared there would soon be a pair of eyes on her, as there had always been in Kings Landing. Sansa wouldn’t be able to take the risks she had foolishly been taking just hours before... gods, she still had so much to learn.

The minutes and hours spent nursing Sweetrobin passed slowly and without enjoyment. He got overexcited playing with her, tugging at her hair and sleeves, until she'd snapped at him to stop, offending him enough that his hand had started to shake and it was decided he should retire to his bed. She knew it was selfish of her to get so upset by the foibles of a sick little boy. He wasn’t to blame for the situation she was in, but then nor was she, and she was no simple nursemaid, not any more.

When she had word that the guests had departed for the evening and she could finally go see Lord Baelish, it was difficult to keep herself from running to him. She imagined, as she walked, what it would be like to throw herself into his arms, to kiss him, to feel his hair between her fingers. Not to be caught unawares by his mouth on hers, but to catch him by surprise for once. What it would be like to make him moan her name, her real name. If she could just get him to forget who he was, even for a moment. If he could only be Petyr Baelish, not Littlefinger.

She arrived at his solar barely aware of the journey she’d taken to get there, so wrapped up in these pleasant thoughts was she, and yet she had to force herself to knock on the door. It was just another visit between a teacher and student, she thought. If she wanted to understand Littlefinger and his machinations, there was only one way. She raised her hand and timidly knocked on the cold, dark oak.

She heard his call for her to enter; when she walked in he was sat at his table, which was covered in papers and books, clutching a goblet of Arbor Gold. The fire was crackling reassuringly as she approached, and she immediately felt more at ease, feeling at last able to take a deep breath. However she found herself questioning how close to him she should get, suddenly feeling her every emotion was on show, and settled for standing a few paces away.

He appeared to notice, glancing up with mild amusement. ‘Come closer, Alayne, I want you to look at this.’ She approached the table, moving round to his side to see what he was looking at. It was a series of letters, written in elaborate, looping scripts that she didn’t recognise. She tried not to notice the brush of his arm against her as he moved to set down his wine and rearrange the papers, but she couldn’t help but jump. She suddenly felt something coil deep in her stomach, her brief relief over.

‘What are they, father?’

‘All of these,’ he answered, gesturing to the table, ‘are petitions from the people of Gulltown, wanting food for the winter. One must keep an eye on the game, Alayne, but don’t let it distract you from the people below us. Without their support we are nothing. It’s why men like myself and Lord Grafton spend endless hours discussing where we shall store our grain.’ With a sigh, he leant back in his chair, his mockingbird pin glinting in the flickering fire light.

‘I’m glad you saw fit to see Lord Robert for a while, my sweet, though I expect in the future you will be somewhat more attentive. I wasn’t aware you had taken to wandering the castle, but I’m sure you’ve seen all there is to be seen?’

She nodded, feeling like there was little more in the world she hadn’t seen. She was still trying to decipher the letters, the names and demands lain out before her in endless rows. Petyr’s keen greyish eyes were watching her, but they flickered shut as he laid back, his hands moving behind his head.

‘Good. Now come, give your father a kiss.’

Without thinking, she moved down, braced her hands on his shoulders, and kissed him full on the lips.

He straightened up with a start, for a moment seeming to pull away before sitting up fully. He wrapped an arm around her waist, and pulled her into his lap, his lips never leaving hers. She couldn't help but whimper into his mouth as his tongue parted her lips, and she wriggled against him, feeling herself burning, her sensitive sex swollen and desperate for his touch. She moved her shaking hands to his neck, her nerves providing a useful pretense of inexperience as she trembled against him. _Please_ , she begged the gods as his tongue probed against hers and his fingers dug into her waist, _please let this never end_. 


	6. A Push

It had to end of course, as the annoyance of needing to breathe interrupted them and gave them a reason to part. The moment was broken; they lingered, frozen, with Sansa still curled into his chest.

Petyr was silent, and he surveyed her with newly alert eyes. There was that stare again, the one that made her feel naked, and it bore right through her. She felt powerless, her gaze dropping to avoid his. The pounding of her heart against her ribs spoke of her very real need, and it took what felt like an age for her to realise that her face should be expressing some sort of shock. She was relieved to find that, luckily, it already was. At last he spoke.

‘That was a pleasant surprise, sweetling.’ His voice even more hoarse than usual. ‘Now where did you learn that little trick, I wonder?’

‘I’m sorry, Lord Bae-Petyr-Father,’ she stumbled. ‘I just- you always ask me to kiss you on the lips.’

‘And yet you usually politely defer to my cheek.’ She felt him lean in close, his breath warm on her forehead. He inhaled deeply, and his right hand moved to run through her hair, teasing it between his long fingers. His face was a blank slate.

‘I’m sorry father- I just wanted to, I’m sorry. I thought you would like it.’

She leant back slightly, one hand moving uneasily from his neck towards his chest. The other lingered where it was, rested on his shoulder. Her mind scrambled to imagine the best way of handling the situation she unexpectedly found herself in - she certainly hadn’t anticipated doing anything so stupid so soon - but it seemed she had thrown herself into the depths, and would have to struggle her way to the surface one way or another.

Various courses of action ran through her mind in those next few moments. Should she try to seduce him outright, reach down between them and feel if he was as aroused as she was? No, that was too brash, too rushed. Mayhaps she should act horrified? No, that would be too off-putting, too insulting. Play the fool and flatter him? Too obvious. She could not go further tonight; but she would certainly not go back.

Right now, the only thing she could do was ensure that this was of some advantage to her. She wouldn’t allow him to use this as evidence of her childish foolishness, to push her away while congratulating himself on seducing her so successfully. The blame for their irresponsible pleasure did not fall solely at her feet. He had not stopped it; he had kissed her back, and it had felt like a one full of passion and lust, a release. He had given in to her, for a moment.

She looked down at her hand, unconsciously toying with a button on his doublet. Yes, this was good. She stopped and clenched her fist, as if embarrassed to have caught herself doing it – as if she was embarrassed to be showing how much she wanted him. She felt his gaze drop to look at her hand too, and they both watched as her fingers hesitantly returned to caress the button, a lesson in clumsy seduction.

She realised the only way she would ever unsettle him was to show him that his plans for her had gone awry. And while she couldn’t show him just how much she had learnt of late, she could certainly demonstrate how little he truly knew her. That she was no longer simply a piece to be manoeuvred, but had a game of her own to play, and emotions and needs beyond that.  He had taught her to be something which would challenge him more than he expected; and in that second it became clear to Sansa the only thing that would ever truly be able to seduce Littlefinger. It was not power, nor prestige: it was a game. He wouldn’t realise it was one he could lose until too late.

A matter of seconds had passed since their kiss ended; yet it seemed to Sansa that everything had changed in those few moments. In the wake of her silence he spoke again.  
  
‘Must I tell you once more, Alayne, that sometimes we cannot do exactly what we want?’  His other hand slid beneath her arm and round her waist, his finger drawing circles against her back.

‘However much we might want to,’ – his hand moved lazily to grip her waist- ‘one must wait for the right moment.’

A low moan escaped her, not entirely voluntarily. She was unsure whether it surprised him or not; his other hand tightened around a strand of her hair, but he still merely watched her. Her lips parted, her eyelids fluttering shut. They remained like that for a moment, almost comfortable, Sansa focusing on the sensation of his fingers in her hair. So she barely noticed her own hand fall from the button of his doublet to her skirts, close to his crotch; until her fingers brushed against him.

She barely had time to register that it had happened before he had roughly turned her round, the chair screeching across the floor as he stood, sending her tumbling into the desk. Her shoulders ached as her palms slammed hard into wood, sending papers flying to the ground. Within the same moment his arms enclosed her, holding her still.

His quickened breath was warm on her skin as his body wrapped around hers, the only sign that this wasn’t his plan all along. His beard tickled her, his lips the slightest pressure against the curve of her neck. Her mind whirred at the sudden change of pace, and with no small amount of anger at its force. She had readied herself for a battle of minds and wills, and a game of seduction; but she had had enough of games which left her battered and bruised. She would no longer play them.

Their silence hung heavy in the air as they both remained motionless; until his hand ghosted down her arm, so softly that it left a trail of goose pimples, meeting her splayed hand to press down hard against it. She shivered. The only sounds were the quiet crackling of the fire, and the howling of the wind outside; the only reminders of a world beyond the two of them. His mouth pressed against her ear.

‘You’ll need to use the dye again tonight, sweetling,’ he whispered. His grip on her hand tightened, his fingers weaving between hers. She felt him smile. ‘I’m beginning to see some Tully in you.’

He released her and stepped aside; when she turned to face him her back was straight, her face as blank as she could make it. She could feel her anger building, a culmination of frustration and exhaustion, but she would not give in to his attempts to stir her. There was barely a gap between them, but she fought the temptation to close it - she would have him see her face clearly. Let him see she would not be trifled with, not any more. _Let him look into my eyes and see a Stark._

‘You are right to see a Tully in me, Lord Baelish,' she said, quietly but boldly. 'I wonder if you see the Wolf too? Or do you hope it is just a name you can use when you have need of it?’

He did not respond, but his smile seemed to fade, appearing less confident than she had ever seen it. She slid past him and moved towards the window at the rear of his room. Beyond it the wind howled, battering at the glass, demanding its right to enter. Snow swirled in the air, unable to settle.

She stared out at the Eyrie, stretching as far as the eye could see, cold and inhospitable. She was unwilling to look back at him.

‘Because it appears to me winter has already come.’

She turned and left, leaving the door to slam behind her.


	7. Burning

By the time she returned to the Maiden’s Tower she was gasping, from shock, nerves, and an overwhelming lust. Trying to walk down the empty corridors at a normal pace took a huge deal of effort, and her hands shook as she wrenched open the thick oak door to her chambers. Once she’d checked all was clear, she stripped her robe and smallthings in a hurry, collapsing on to her bed as her hand crept between her legs. Her inner thighs were slippery with her wetness, enough to coat two fingers as they slipped inside her, rushed and impatient. She bit on her lip, remembering the scratch of his beard on her neck, his hand on hers. The hoarseness of his voice after kissing. She rubbed herself until the familiar white heat filled her, and she writhed in ecstasy, her back arching, shuddering in the moment of her release.

As she lay, watching the rise and fall of her chest as her breathing returned to normal, she thought on what had happened. He thought he could treat her like a desperate fool, overawed by his power, but she knew who she was. He may have resources and experience; but she had quick wits and a famous name. She wasn’t sure what game they were playing; if there even was one anymore. But she had surprised powerful men before, and she could do it again.

She propped herself up on her elbows and swept her eyes over her chamber, trying to look at them through a spy’s eyes. Her wardrobe was disrupted where she had scrambled to choose a dress which would best suit her figure. She looked at the dress on the floor; its red and blue Tully colours clear even in the flickering candlelight. Perhaps she had been too bold.

Clambering off the bed she pulled on her nightgown, worried that she may be disturbed, as unlikely as it was. Maddy no longer slept in Sansa’s quarters, now sleeping in her own small room elsewhere in the Maiden’s Tower instead. Of course on nights when it was so cold neither of them could bear it, Sansa would pad across the corridor and down the stairs, knock timidly on the door, and ask if she would like to join her. Good natured Maddy rarely grumbled, almost always saying yes. She would gather her sheets and grit her teeth against the cold of the stone beneath her bare feet, all the while muttering beneath her breath.

‘My lady,’ she would say, ‘if only you didn’t kick so in your sleep, life would be much simpler!’

Sansa had suddenly developed the annoying habit a few weeks earlier, necessitating Maddy’s move from being her near constant bed fellow to enjoying her own room downstairs. She missed the company sometimes. But as Sansa had told herself as she stared into the dark and aimed some sharp kicks into Maddy’s shins, she would be glad of it soon. And she was, once it had been decided that Maddy’s legs could take no more. She was a woman grown, and she would claim the privilege of privacy where ever she could get it.

But she would invite her to share her bed tonight. She wished she could say it was only for the company and the warmth. But the truth of it was that only a guard beside her would be able to keep her from returning to Littlefinger’s solar, pulling at that doublet, trying anything to disrupt his infuriatingly still exterior.  She had an image of herself kissing him, bringing his hands to her rear; but he wouldn’t kiss back, and his hands kept dropping. Even in that image, she could feel his smug grin beneath her lips.

Sometimes he gave away his intentions towards her too easily, let her know too much. In a hazy way in the back of her mind, she had begun to realise that it had been his intention all along to make her love him, and that was why he was so gratified, so unsurprised by her lust, seeing it as merely a symptom of his success. But did he know that he told her this, with his very glances and smiles, and softly-spoken words? Sansa could only hope that he didn’t.

She had thought it kind, his time spent with her, stealing kisses and encouraging her mind. A sign that he was trying to help her, to teach her. Was it a way of trying to protect her? Or was it that he simply couldn’t restrain himself, was unable to prevent himself showing off to her, dazzling her with his complex plans and intrigue? If he couldn’t restrain himself at those times, then why was he able to do it when she least wanted him to? What was it about those other times that loosened his tongue, and about seduction that bound it?

As she arranged the dresses back into the wardrobe she tried to imagine what Baelish would be doing at this moment. Probably drinking his Arbor Gold, watching the fire burn, and thinking of her parting words – most likely thinking that they were just the foolish words of a little girl. But though they had been a result of stirred anger and recklessness, Sansa couldn’t deny to herself that they were true. It would take a lot more time and pressure to make a Stone from a Stark.

She pulled the door open slightly and peered through the gap. The candles were burning down; unlike at King's Landing, this castle was allowed to fade into darkness in the early hours, with nobody willing or concerned enough to replace the rows of spindly candles with thicker ones, or torches. Reminded, she returned to pull a log from the stack beside her own fireplace, and threw it on top. She lit her own candlestick from the growing flames and returned to the door, this time widening it enough for her to slip through. She didn’t want to send the sound of the creak echoing down the hall - though who would hear it here?

It only took a few moments of careful navigation down the curving stairs to reach the level of Maddy’s room. Yet before she could leave the staircase her feet froze, seemingly unwilling to take a step forward which felt so much like a step backward. She leant against the wall, sinking down to sit on the floor. She felt she had cried all there was to cry in her short lifetime; in any case, tears couldn't quite express the variety of emotions colliding in her mind. Instead, she simply rested her head on her knees, listening to the silence of an empty castle, and wondered what on earth she could possibly do next.


	8. Awake

She woke the next morning to the ringing of a bell, the shrill sound approaching as she groaned, her muscles sore and throbbing. It took her a few moments to orient herself, before she realised she had foolishly fallen asleep where she had sat, her head rested on her knees, her left cheek numb. It took her another moment to realise the sound of the bell was getting closer and closer, and that it would be highly improper to be caught, asleep and barely dressed, in the corridor outside her maidservant’s room. They would think she had gone mad, and taken to roaming the castle in the early hours. Or that she couldn’t sleep without her companion, like a child. Or worse, that she had been involved in some midnight tryst, and had been caught in the escape. She felt panic rise in her throat as she pulled her gown close around her chest. It must be early in the morning, if the servant whose duty it was to wake the others scattered around the castle was only just making his rounds. She had always felt the bell unnecessary and obsolete in such an empty tower, but she was grateful for it now.

Scrambling to her feet, she looked for a place to hide, but as the dim daylight began to flicker through the window she realised there was nowhere she could go unnoticed. Momentarily she thought of waking up Maddy, but thought better of it; if she was not awake yet, there was still a chance Sansa could make it to her chamber before her, and nobody would need know of her childishness, her weakness.

She stood and braced herself against the corner of the corridor, leaning on to the stairs, trying to judge how far away the sound was. It seemed close but further down, perhaps a floor below. She had little time, and so with a deep breath she scurried onto the spiral staircase and ran up, dizzy by the time she reached the level of her rooms. She could feel herself shaking with nerves, and she thought for a moment how funny it was that she hadn’t shaken when committing the much more egregious sin of laying with the kitchen boy in the garden – at least, it would have been one to her Lord Baelish, if no one else. Somehow the thought of being caught in that crime seemed impossible, dreamlike; whereas the idea of being caught, hair undone and practically in her smallthings, by an unknown guard – that idea seemed painfully real.

The sunlight had yet to reach her corridor, so early was it, so as she approached her door she had to feel along the wall to get her bearings. Her hands brushed the cold stone until she reached wood, but as she felt it the ringing reached her ears once more. She glanced hurriedly towards the stairs – the light of a lantern was bouncing up the walls, the bell getting louder. Placing her back against the door she leant with all her strength, its great weight resisting until it finally dislodged, enough for her to get inside and push it to again.

She leant her forehead against the door, sighing with relief as the bell got louder, louder, then started to fade away as the ringer passed by. She stared at the patterns in the wood as her heartbeat settled, thinking on her outrageous good fortune. She let out a long breath.

‘Have you enjoyed your dawn wanderings, sweetling?’

She spun on her heel, stumbling; the voice cut through her like a knife. There was Lord Baelish, sat on the edge of her bed. He was partially lit by the hazy light beginning to come through the window; she could just about see that he wasn’t even looking at her, his head only slightly tilted in her direction. He was already dressed, wearing his usual garb, but without the heavy sash. It made him seem naked. Her gown had come undone as she ran, and though part of her wanted to tighten it, she couldn’t seem to make her hands agree.

Excuses ran quickly through her mind, before she realised in principle she had done nothing wrong. The easiest option would be to tell the truth. But she had spent so much time living various lies that it felt wrong, _too_ easy, to be honest. It was like giving away a part of herself. It was better to manipulate the truth; it was harder, but it made her feel braver. It was like building a wall around herself, brick by brick.

‘It was no choice of mine, my Lord. I wanted to walk last night, but I fell asleep as I sat at the window, and only just awoke. I pray this has not inconvenienced you?’

‘Not at all, dove. I thought I would come find you early, so I was surprised to find your bed empty. Someone could think you were up to no good.’

Sansa blushed, the memory of herself bent over the bed in that empty room with Bosley’s fingers deep inside her rising up unbidden. The memory of her narrow finger wrapped around his heavy, spurting length. His hand gripping her hair. His face seemed to fade out of focus, Petyr’s swimming in and out.

‘You must know that I would do nothing to dishonour us, Father.’

‘Of course not, Alayne. I would hope that my daughter would know by now that there are grave repercussions for acting so foolishly...’

He patted the bed beside him, still not looking at her. ‘And bolt the door, would you Alayne? I would hate poor Maddy to walk in unannounced.’

She did as he asked, feeling a chill run through her as she walked to stand in front of him, unwilling to sit. He patted the bed beside him again, finally looking at her when she still didn’t move. His face was level with her stomach as she looked down at him, recognising something burning in his eyes, something between curiosity and lust. She watched as his hand moved to slide around her hip, under her robe. It was confident and carefree. She could be that too.

‘After last night’s little performance, I thought you would deem yourself too much the Wolf to sit in my lap.’ He rubbed the fabric against her skin, an echo of the night before. ‘But now you won’t even sit beside me?’

‘I’m sorry for the things I said, Father. It was foolish of me...’ she shook her head, trying to phrase it properly. ‘I let myself be... made to say silly things I didn’t mean, or understand. Forgive me.’ She gripped his forearm, still watching him as his gaze dropped to her waist, her lips parting.

‘Things you didn’t mean? I find that had to believe, sweetling. As for not understanding... I believe you understand the way the world works better than most.’

He pulled her forward with the hand around her waist, dragging her towards him until she straddled his legs. She gasped; this was intentional, real, and mutual. He moved backwards until they were both on the bed. His hand was sliding down towards her rear, his every touch feeling like fire brushing against her skin, even through the material of her nightgown. Her hair was tumbling out of her loose plait, brushing his face as he looked up at her.

‘There isn’t much to understand,’ he muttered, one hand cupping her rear. It was so intimate, but at the same time it felt so normal. ‘This world revolves around power – you must know that by now.’

She nodded. Cautious of being too still, she ran her fingers through his hair, delighted by the sigh it brought from his lips – seemingly unexpected by either of them. Her back arched again, her body aching now in a more pleasurable way, and he roughly pulled her closer.

‘There are many ways to get power, but mostly it revolves around two things. One is to have money, but that is nothing special, and is easy enough to get. The other is to have something unique, which means that people need you, or simply want you.’

He pulled her face closer to his, his breath warm against her lips. His other hand moved to gather the material between her legs, burrowing beneath, gripping her thigh, his thumb rubbing at the joint between her leg and her sex.

‘You have something very special indeed, Sansa,’ he muttered, before pulling her into a searing kiss.


	9. On Fire

It was slow but passionate, his tongue probing against her lips, neither of them wanting to pull apart to breathe. Hearing him utter her real name aloud felt illicit, almost sordid, a sign that he was letting go of his illusions about her – but in truth, this kiss seemed to Sansa to be about ownership. This was Littlefinger, teaching his student, claiming his prize. Reminding her that the reality of their situation was not lost on him, but that it didn’t matter, as he would always know how to control her. As she moaned involuntarily she felt as though she was about to give in to that urge within her, to let him do as he please, to do anything just to have his hands on her for a moment, and she willed herself to resist.

Cautiously she stroked down his side, and round to grip his back - perhaps not clumsily enough, but it would do – as he drew her closer to him. When she pulled at the material of his doublet, he tensed for a moment beneath her, and she immediately felt better, less lost than before. As if to reassert some form of dominance, he caught her bottom lip between his teeth, surprising her just as his thumb inched closer to that sweet ache between her thighs.

If she had been thinking rationally she wouldn’t have moved her legs, trying to hold his hand between them, but she seemed to be functioning purely on instinct now. Anything to fill that empty feeling growing within her - but he simply moved his hand away, onto her hip. She could feel the self-satisfied smile on his lips even as they kissed. His nails bit into her thigh as he tried to stop her from grinding against him – then slowly he broke apart from her, holding her head still by the hair to keep her looking at him. He looked hungry for her, as hungry as she felt.

‘You see what you can do to a man, sweetling – you are not just a name, and you are not just what’s between your legs. But if you let men have either for nothing, you are a fool.’

There was a brief pause; he was watching her keenly. It still wasn’t quite intensity in his eyes, instead something more akin to curiosity, bemusement - it was enough though, for now.  She wove the hand on his arm up the back of his neck, into his short hair, watching him resist a shudder under her teasing fingers. But his face changed to concerned surprise as their weight shifted and they began to fall backwards, onto the bed, and he had to let go of her to support himself. The air between them was heavy with expectation; the shift in angle meaning Sansa could feel almost all of her body pressed against his, including the reassuring stiffness against her stomach. His arms were locked behind him, holding him up – he was powerless to move, and she tried to hide how happy this made her. Instead she tried to look awed, lost in the discovery of lust. Taking the opportunity to move her arms she began to wriggle free from her heavy outer gown, feeling it drop to the floor. She returned to brush her fingers against his lips, a picture of innocence once more.

‘But what more could I demand from you, my Lord, when you have already given me so much?’ She hesitated, again looking for the right words, imploring him with the naivety of her shy glances. ‘How could I thank you enough?’

So swiftly was it done that she couldn’t have said how it happened, but within a moment he had manoeuvred them so she was on her back. Splayed across the bed, arms pinned down on either side, she wriggled to get loose. He straddled her now, looking less awkward in the position than she could have imagined, his face stern over hers. Dropping his head to hers, he whispered warmly in her ear.

‘I once asked my lady if she like games, but she didn’t answer. Would you like to play a game now?’

Sansa nodded. She would have agreed to almost anything to make something happen, to make him move.

‘If you could promise me to stay very still and quiet, there will be a prize for you. Can you do that, sweetling?’

 She swallowed, nodding, a knot of nerves forming in her stomach as she stilled her writhing legs, and watched him move off the bed to stand between them. He only hesitated for a moment, before reaching for her with brusque but expert hands.

She stifled a yelp as he roughly traced her curves with his palms, bunching the material of her gown around her waist with hasty yanks, until she was exposed to him. Grabbing her thighs he slid her to the edge of the bed, dropping to his knees in front of her.

Sansa felt almost mad with desire; it beat through her, a wave of bliss trying to make her body move against her will. Her sex was completely bare, wet and hot, and though the feeling of it was not quite shameful, it was something close. It was bringing the world of pleasure she had discovered into her true life, turning what felt like a distant dream into tangible reality. She looked down at him, trying to move her head as little as possible. She watched as his hands slid up her thighs, moving them wider apart as he examined her, seeming to find pleasure in absorbing every detail of her. She could hear that his breathing was quick and shallow, even as he fought to control it. She fought to control her body too, as she had been told, but couldn’t help but gather the sheets into her clenching fists.

‘Gods,’ he muttered, his fingers moving to brush the swollen lips of her sex, making her whimper. He curled her reddish hairs with his fingertips, entranced, teasing her lightly with gentle touches until she could no longer control her body, wantonly pushing up against him. There was little hesitation before she felt him place a chaste kiss between her legs, and a quiet moan escaped her, against her will.

‘Shh,’ he whispered, sharply. She bit her lip until she drew blood, as he returned to placing quick kisses all over her crotch, on her hip bones, on the insides of her legs. But it was when he pressed his lips flat against her, and pushed between her slick folds with his tongue, that she couldn’t stand it anymore, bringing her hands over her mouth to muffle her cries. She didn’t want to appear desperate for him, but this felt like something entirely new. As his tongue began to caress that most sensitive part of her, the sensation was so strong that it was almost painful, and she began to crave his body pressed against her, the fullness she imagined only his cock inside her would bring.

As if he could read her mind and had decided to taunt her, one ringed thumb began to press against her entrance, as her body clenched in anticipation. She could only hear her own shallow, startled, gasps, her upper body uncomfortably warm under her nightgown. She wrapped her leg around Petyr’s shoulder, pulling him closer, and she felt his breathy chuckle tickle against her cunt. He pushed his thumb inside her and returned to his wet licks and kisses with renewed vigour, his face buried into her sex, and Sansa could barely believe it when that familiar bucking feeling began. She was going to come, and it was Littlefinger, Petyr, pushing into her with just a thumb, who was making her feel this way. She was almost glad that she couldn’t catch her breath enough to cry out, for fear he would stop. This was different to when she brought herself off, all-consuming, making her whole body lock as – yes- she felt a rush of wetness between her thighs as she tightened around his thumb inside her, shuddering –

The knock on the door startled her as she came, biting at her own fingers, gasping silently with the force of it, Baelish unrelenting between her clenching thighs, waiting until her body seemed to sag with relief and exhaustion before he stopped. The door rattled, the bolt only just holding it, and she heard a sharp reproof from the other side as her mind began to work again. But she was still disappointed when she felt Petyr pull away and stand, glancing down to see him wipe around his mouth, seeming to savour the taste of her.

‘Well, Alayne,’ he said as he stood, as if nothing had happened, only his look of smug satisfaction proof they had done anything at all. She tried to glance at him, to see if at least it had made his manhood hard, but she couldn’t see. ‘I suppose that your faithful maidservant will want to get you ready for the day ahead.  Go make yourself presentable in the washroom. If she asks, I woke you myself to ask you to write some letters for me.’

He walked to her bureau, sliding open a drawer and pulling out some blank papers to scatter on the desk. Her heart froze in her chest as she saw him brush them apart with his fingertips. Did he pause, or did she imagine it? She couldn’t see from where she was now, sat up on the bed – where had she put that letter from Randa? Oh gods, why was she such a fool?

He turned quickly to look at her. ‘Well? Do you think you’re in a suitable state to be seen, daughter? Go!’

She scurried to the washroom, gathering her discarded things as she went, hearing only muffled conversation as Baelish opened the door to the quickly apologetic maid on the other side. She patted at her dewy skin and glowing face, trying her best to look like she had only recently awoken, then washed between her legs with a cloth. Her legs still felt weak, and she pinched herself in an attempt to wake herself up, willing herself to recover some of her wits.

When she left the room, Petyr had gone. Her bed was immaculate, as if she had made it when she woke. The papers on her desk bore some scribbles, where he’d made it look as if they had already started their work; but her heart dropped again when she noticed that only half the papers he had scattered still remained there. Ignoring Maddy’s annoyed protestations – ‘since when do you lock your door m’lady?’ – she ran to look at them. Where was the letter, where was it? With trembling hands she slid the sheaths of paper apart, trying to be thorough. As an afterthought she wrenched open the drawer, shuffling through the left over letters, mostly notes of thanks from visitors and their wives – yes, there it was. She took the letter in her hand and closed the drawer again.

A brief wave of relief passed through her, but the very sensation of relief was so deeply associated with being proved wrong that the reality of the situation was quick to follow. She had to resist her naive wish to believe he hadn’t seen it. Littlefinger saw everything. How long had he been waiting for her? How long had he had to spy on her?

She turned back to her maid, who was crouching over the fire. Angry at her own stupidity, she scrunched up the letter in her hand until it was a tight ball, frustrated that she had let Baelish see one of the few cards she held. Distantly, she noted to herself how quickly the contentment of her sated lust had waned, and made a promise that she would never be caught so unprepared again. Never again would she give something for nothing.

She moved across the room, watching the growing flames. ‘Sorry Maddy. I wasn’t quite myself this morning.’ She threw the letter into the fire, watching it burn.

 

_________

 

A/N: Thanks for all your lovely comments, I never expected more than 3 people to read this so I'm flattered beyond belief. I was a bit nervous about this chapter so I hope you guys enjoyed it, and (Uni work permitting) there'll be more to follow soon. Much love xx


	10. Practice

Her room wasn’t the only one with a fire burning in it that day; winter had certainly arrived, and the tightening grip of its icy fingers was even noticeable in the ever-frozen Eyrie. Lords and servants huddled for warmth in their solars, and the corridors seemed ghostly quiet to Sansa, stifled by the deafening silence. So she had pursued familiarity and privacy to her favourite alcove, the one where her adventure had begun – well, the only adventure she had ever chosen for herself, and one she was now bound to see to its conclusion.

As she watched through the frosted window, her eyes followed the paths of various snowflakes as they tried desperately to fall. Pushed by the blustering winds into this direction or that, unable to settle anywhere, they swirled in spirals in the air. She was thinking of all the times her childish dreams had been foiled, all the things which had not been what she’d expected them to be. The gods seemed to have chosen a different path for her, and she was never going to fall into the simple life she’d had every cause to expect. She shivered; she felt the cold in her very bones, curled up on the broad windowsill, pressed against the glass.

‘M’lady Alayne,’ said a rough voice, and when she looked up there stood Bosley, hands full of firewood, an impish grin on his face. ‘Long time since I’ve seen you last, or at least it feels it.’ He placed his load at her feet, straightening to stand proud, cocky. His skin was tinged red with the cold – he must have been bringing in firewood from the garden.

‘It’s been a day, Bosley, surely you cannot covet me so much. I know for certain that you... enjoy the company of many other ladies.’

He chuckled. ‘Indeed, m’lady, but none of them so fine as you.’ He stepped into the alcove, and when he leant his arm against the glass she found herself trapped, half-laying on the sill. He leant in for a kiss, brushing his rough lips against hers, until she turned her cheek to him, but he did not stop.

‘Bosley,' she whispered, 'I fear I made a mistake in starting this. I was nearly caught yesterday. Some of my maids suspect I am doing things I shouldn’t. And worse, Lord Baelish suspects something. If I am found out we will both be in danger.’

That seemed to stall him at least, his mouth pausing at her neck before he moved away to look at her.

‘How so? What interest has he in the coming and goings of a kitchen boy and- no offense m’lady- a bastard daughter? I don’t see the ‘arm, really, you’re fretting over naught. We haven’t even fucked yet!’ He tried to return to her but, twisting, she pushed him away.

‘Bosley, you know Lord Baelish has no child by marriage. He doesn’t think of me as his natural child, he thinks of me as an heir, a successor. Or he expects such standards of me at least. I cannot endanger you after everything you have done for me, the brief time we’ve shared.’ Her eyes were imploring, so open and honest he could not help but believe her. After a few seconds he groaned, resigned, but then gripped her hand and pulled it to him.

‘Well then, princess,’ – she almost flinched, but remembered herself – ‘perhaps you could give me a parting favour.’ He dragged her hand down to the top of his trousers, leaving it tucked there while he loosened his laces.

She considered not doing it for a moment, but she realised that the likelihood of being discovered was low, and she’d rather leave Bosley thinking well of their dalliance than make an enemy where she needn’t. This corridor only led between the kitchen, the garden, and a long and dark disused hallway, thus the chance of anyone other than herself and Bosley using it was miniscule. So she tucked her hand inside his rough smallthings, feeling almost calm when his stiffening cock pressed heavy against her hand.

She moved slightly for a more comfortable position, gripping him firmly as she knew he liked and stroking him up and down. She was gratified that he hardened quickly, though she was still somewhat in awe of _that_ particular process. She had caught only glimpses of his manhood as it usually was, and the thought of it growing at her attentions was still mysterious, though somehow a pleasurable idea in itself.

She started slow, enjoying his panting breaths as he quickly hardened, her hand rising with him until her knuckles brushed his stomach. When she felt enough liquid gathering in her palm to enable her to go faster with more ease, she did so, setting a slightly more hurried pace. He palmed her breast with an indelicate hand, still leaning over her until his forehead nearly pressed against the window pane, and his breath fogged up the glass. Her wrist began to ache, so she ran a thumb over the head, which she’d found seemed to speed the process, and he grunted unconsciously in her ear. Before too long his body stiffened, and his hold on her breast tightened to a painful degree as his seed spilled in spurts over the top of her hand. He swore copiously in her ear, both praises and curses and thanks to the gods.

She left her hand inside his smallthings, curious as his spent length shortened and pulsed within her loose grasp. After a moment of recovery he pulled a cloth from his pocket, drawing her hand away and cleaning up their mess. Sansa’s first instinct was to lick it off her hand, but she’d discovered that he seemed to find this appealing, and she didn’t want to imply this had been anything but a goodbye.

When they had righted themselves, he bent to pick up the firewood again. Once he looked back at her, his face was full of a casual cheerfulness that she only ever associated with people whose lives were full, full of simple pleasures and satisfying work. She could think of few faces which bore that smile in Kings Landing, and for a moment she wanted nothing more than to take him to bed, but more lies slipped out with convincing ease.

‘This has meant a lot to me Bosley. If it wasn’t for the danger to us both, you know I would never say goodbye, not for all the world.’

‘And you, m’lady. Let’s hope it’s not goodbye forever...’ he laughed again, shaking his head, and she smiled coyly as he moved away, footsteps echoing down the corridor.

Her smile didn’t fade until she heard the door slam behind him. As she curled back towards the window, she marvelled at her own complete lack of concern. She wondered if this is how Baelish felt whenever he faultlessly adapted to a situation which could have caused him problems: unruffled, almost uninterested. It was so easy, that she hadn’t even noticed she was lying, and pleasing him had hardly been taxing. It was like playing a character, a mummers show. How well confidence, and some degree of apathy, could suppress all the worst and most frustrating feelings! She could feel the depth of her emotions running like a river, deep within her, but it was as if they were being dammed by a growing indifference. She was feeling those things, but at the same time she was numb to them.

Somewhere nearby a bell tolled. Sansa realised she had lost track of time, and slowly readied herself to leave. She knew she should go and see Sweetrobin, or he would complain she was neglecting him; and though she couldn’t muster any enthusiasm, she didn’t want to have to recover his good favour either.

She barely noticed, as she girded herself for the inevitable demands of the little Lord, that she was simply preparing herself to play another character.  It was a disguise she could wear now with little effort, just a matter of pulling different characteristics to the fore, and she realised that’s all acting was – all lying should be. She could enter and leave rooms as different people, and only she would know who was real and who was not. Her actions did not have to stem from how she truly felt – those things were private, now. Nobody else would stir those waters unless she allowed it. But she could use the memory of more naive times however she pleased.

Alayne Stone would leave the corridor that afternoon, to Lord Robert’s chamber; who knew who she would become tomorrow?


	11. Children

As the days passed, the Eyrie seemed to return to its former silence and emptiness. Even as Sansa tried to act in the same way she ever had, she felt herself withdrawing from the people around her, her mind full of memories and sordid fantasies she struggled to control. In her dreams she threw Littlefinger to the bed, and he was unable to move as she took her pleasure from him, watching her with glazed eyes; she would wake up in a sweat, tangled up in her bedsheets. Seeing such images in her head gave Sansa a feeling of lonely maturity, one she’d never known before.

Still, she missed the simple companionship naivety could offer, missed being amused and awed by the tawdry tales told by her maids. But it all felt so false now, and from behind the mask of her usual self, she knew everything had changed. A huge part of her longed for a life which no longer existed; and though she could pretend to the others, day by day, she could no longer pretend to herself that this cold little castle felt like a home. Another part of her wanted vengeance for her family more than anything, a family now no more than a memory. And a last part of her, a dominant part, wanted to think only of herself, because doing so was the only way to protect herself. This part of her mind whispered to her that it was for the best, not having anything or anyone to love. After all, people she cared about seemed to suffer. Maybe she was destined to be unhappy, but at least she had no else’s life to ruin.

The days that followed that lust-filled morning with Littlefinger were long, arduous and tiring, spent mostly alone or in the company of Sweetrobin. Distractions were limited, and she felt she had neglected him of late; and even though she tried to suppress it, she would always feel a certain level of sympathy for the sickly child. It was gratifying to watch as her presence calmed him – at least, for an hour or two. She was good at controlling him, at least.

Of course, that thought did little to comfort her when she pictured them marrying, him drooling in their bed as he slept. The idea that she would have to kiss him, share a bed with him, continued to repulse her, even more so now that she was, by most measures, a woman. Though, she supposed, she had already been married to one little man – why not another? Tyrion had been kind enough to leave her alone. Perhaps she could make Robert do the same, once they were old enough to be married at all. Perhaps he would never make that age...

She shook her head. A while ago such a cruel thought would have shocked her, let alone the idea of thinking such things as she was holding the very person’s hand. She was sat in Sweetrobin’s chambers, comforting him as Maester Colemon drew blood with leeches. He was crying, his little eyes teary, as she told him how brave and kingly he was being – ‘I know you’re not scared, Lord Robert. It might hurt a little, but they need to do this for you to be well again.’

She watched the Maester’s face as she spoke, his lip gripped between his teeth with fierce concentration. She wondered what he would have said if she’d thought to ask him for the moon tea, and almost laughed. He was such a nervous wreck, he probably would have fainted! She held Robert’s hand a bit tighter to stop herself laughing.

‘There my Lord, the thing is done,’ said the Maester. ‘You best rest now-’

‘No!’ the little boy shouted. He always seemed to recover quickly enough from leeching to have this argument, Sansa thought. She wondered if he still heard Marillion’s voice in his dreams, and that was why he feared to sleep. ‘I want to go play with Alayne, I don’t want to rest!’

‘My Lord, we can play when you wake up. Then you’ll be ready and full of energy to play with me, that will be good won’t it? We can play with your toy horses again if you like.’

His fist hit the bed frame as he writhed on the sheets with anger, dragging the hand he gripped with it. Sansa grimaced with the pain. He usually did what she said, if she said the right thing, but sometimes it took him a while - and this seemed one of those times. She willed him to listen to her, trying to appear as much a supplicant as she possibly could.

‘Robert please, you’re hurting me.’

He didn’t seem to listen, and she glanced over at the Maester. He wasn’t doing anything, so reluctant to intervene was he, and not for the first time she found herself questioning why the Eyrie housed what seemed to be the most nervous member of the Order. Robert’s cries got louder, squawking cries of ‘No!’ and ‘I don’t want to!’, parrot-like, grating. She tore her hand from his and stood up.

‘I won’t stay with you when you are like this, my Lord.’

He clutched the brown cloth of her skirts in fury before she could move away. ‘Yes you will, you will do what I say! Mother would tell you, everyone will tell you, you must do as I say. Lord Petyr would make you stay!’

‘Would I, indeed?’ Sweetrobin’s head snapped to the sound, conveniently overshadowing Sansa’s own surprise. Lord Baelish stood at the door, his eyes intent on the scene before him, of which Sansa seemed only a part. She took the opportunity to remove Robert’s hand from her dress.

‘My Lord will rest, or he shall have none of the lemon cakes I’ve had made for tonight.’

Sansa almost smiled before she could help herself. Lemon cakes were always a favourite of hers – but that was something he knew, of course. It was all games with him. She kept her face still.

‘Lemon cakes?’ whispered Robert. He turned to her. ‘They’re our favourite, aren’t they Alayne?’

‘Indeed, my Lord, they are.’ She looked across at Baelish, still hovering by the doorway, his eyes brightening with amusement. ‘Thank you, Father.’

‘My pleasure, Alayne. But you will have to eat all of them if Robert does not do as he is told, which I think might be beyond even your appetite for the things.’ He stepped in to the room, and he could see him trying to hide a smirk as he gestured to the Maester that he could leave. He was out of the door so quickly that Sansa barely noticed him go.

‘No Lord Baelish,’ muttered Robert, ‘I will rest, but I demand to be woken up earlier this time so me and Alayne can play, as she promised.’ He looked up at her again, and she felt another wave of sympathy for him rise in her, despite it all.

Without looking across the room she felt Littlefinger move closer to her, and she knew he meant to draw her away. But she had already decided that the next time she was alone with Littlefinger would be in a situation of her own making, not his. His hand went to touch her shoulder and she heard him draw breath – she had to speak now.

‘Well, my lord, what if I was to promise to stay by your side? I quite need a rest too, I think. I’m very sleepy of late, I can hardly stay upright! I could just curl up here beside you, but only if you promise to be good.’

There was a momentary pause, and in that moment Sansa begged the gods that Robert would accept her offer as she expected. Littlefinger would know the true purpose of the suggestion, and if it was rejected it was another weapon to use against her. Relief flooded her as Robert smiled and nodded emphatically.

‘Yes yes, you must, or I will not sleep. Lord Baelish, you may leave, we will rest for a while.’ He moved aside to allow her to lie down, and she perched on the edge of the bed. The pride of victory swelled her chest as she went to remove her boots; she could barely look at Littlefinger, she was so relieved.

‘Surely you will not make your friend sleep in her day clothes, Lord Robert,’ said Baelish, after a moment’s pause. ‘She must go get appropriately attired.’ When she looked up, he was staring at her, all traces of amusement gone. Before she could respond, Sweetrobin did it for her.

‘She will do as she is. I say she must stay until tonight, and then we will have cakes together, won’t we?’

‘Of course we will my Lord. And Father, I’m quite alright to sleep like this aren’t I? It wouldn’t do to be seen walking round the castle in just my night things, would it?’

Beside her Sweetrobin giggled with surprise at her bold statement. Only a barely noticeable move of his jaw signalled any reaction from Baelish.

‘Of course, Alayne. Though I had hoped to discuss some things with you – but I suppose it shall have to wait.’ His eyes moved towards Sweetrobin, curled up ready to sleep, and Sansa was shocked to see a flicker of barely disguised distain in them before he managed to cover it. As she curled up under the sheets Littlefinger moved to the door, blowing out the candles along the wall as he went, until only the light of the fire remained. He stepped out to leave, staying to look inside for a moment. He had a look on his face that she couldn’t recognise.

‘Sleep well, _children_ ,’ he whispered. He left without another word.

_________________

 

A/N: Sorry for the delay, guys, I've had so much work! I hope this eases the pain. Love you lots x


	12. Dreaming

Sansa lay awake as the first of those afternoon hours passed by, staring at the canopy above the bed, until she could resist the comfort no more and began to drift between sleep and consciousness. She was alert enough to roll Sweetrobin away as he tried to cling to her in his own sleep, but she kept waking from pleasant dreams - dreams of lemon cakes, playing in the snow, and gentle kisses from faceless knights. When she heard the maid come to wake them – sent by Littlefinger, of course – she was able to rise quickly, step back in to her slippers, and begin the arduous task of rousing the slumbering Lord of the Vale without too much tiredness.

The games she played with him, of knights and fair maidens and challenges overcome, seemed comforting relics of another lifetime. Yet she enjoyed stretching her imagination, giving names to the little dolls she had made for him in her unoccupied hours, or playing with the carved wooden horses. Eventually it was time for him to do his lessons and she managed to slip away – even though she felt happy and cheerful after their childish fun, she did not envy the man who would have to try and teach him the ways of Westeros.

Once finished, and having left Lord Robert behind, she pondered where to go. It was late; the sky outside had already grown dark, and the candles in the tower had already been lit. She couldn’t decide if she ought to go see Littlefinger, or not – but she supposed she had already made him wait several hours, and if she was to maintain any pretence of normalcy, she shouldn’t avoid him any longer. Anyway, it wasn’t as though her hours would otherwise be full of fun and excitement… she checked her hair in the frosted glass of a window as she paced down the corridor towards his solar, trying her best to prepare herself for anything.

When she arrived, she managed to stop herself pausing before she knocked at his door. She knew that if she hesitated, she wouldn’t want to go in. Nor did she wait until he’d replied, instead stepping in to the warmth of his rooms before he’d even finished telling her she could.

It seemed to throw him off his guard for a second, and she too was briefly startled by her own lack of decorum. Unusually, he wasn’t sat at his desk; instead, he was almost slumped in his chair by the fire, his feet propped up against stones of the hearth. He was holding a glass of sweet wine - freshly mulled too, judging by the steam rising from it. He gestured her to come closer and close the door, and turned back towards the flames. His voice when he spoke was low and thick, like the smoke drifting from the over-fuelled fire.

‘I’ve clearly spent too long in King’s Landing, Alayne – I seem to have lost my tolerance for the cold.’

Sansa – no, Alayne – chuckled, moving nearer to stand just behind the seat. ‘Then I hope your wine will warm you quickly, father.’

He glanced down at the glass, as though he had almost forgotten it was in his hand. He turned to her with a grin and held it out to her; his fingers were curved so gracefully around it, and she couldn’t tear her eyes away as her own hand brushed his, gripping the glass, his fingers lingering, then sliding away as she brought it to her lips.

She held it cupped between her hands, and he watched her almost greedily as she tipped it forwards. She took a gulp, and another - but it was too sweet and too much, and it spilled down her chin. He laughed as she stumbled to put it down, but his chuckles died as she went to rub the drying wine from between her breasts, dipping her fingers into the bodice of the dress she wore. He continued to watch silently as she dabbed at her neck, and finally, slowly, wiped the remaining wine from her lips. 

She couldn't help a gleeful giggle of her own as she moved in front of him and saw his half-bemused, half-aroused expression, which she could see even as he fought to hide it. Bunching up her long skirts, she sat on the floor, curling up with her back to the fire, resting against his leg. He stared at her, blue eyes bearing through her, suddenly alert. It all felt so natural, and almost unimportant; as if she was still asleep. 

She barely thought anything as her hand returned to grab his, resting on the arm of the chair; as she twined her fingers into his. She curled herself in between his legs, resting her cheek on his opposite knee. She watched as her arm, with a life of its own, brought his fingers to her collar bones, brushing their joined hands across the spots where small stains of wine rested on her pale skin; and up, against her neck, to her chin, until finally her lips met their fingers, kissing them as softly as she could. Surely nothing in reality was this easy, this simple? It felt like another game, but for once, it felt like a game where nobody was losing.

Baelish was leaning forwards, silent as he watched her, but as he continued to watch he seemed to relax. She slid her fingers from his until her own hand was merely guiding his against her lips, back and forth, occasionally flicking her tongue across his fingertips.

‘I have forgotten to tell you something, sweetling,’ he murmured, sounding almost unconcerned by her display. Her lips met his thumb, and she started to slide it into her mouth, before she went back to her gentle kisses. She didn’t reply, but he didn’t expect her to.

‘We have some visitors next week. Nestor Royce is coming, and his kin…’

Sansa’s breath caught a little, but she recovered and continued, shyly, slowly.

‘Myranda will be resting with you in your chamber. I thought it would benefit you both, in the cold, and I know how you must miss having a companion.’

He didn’t seem to want to follow her hand’s guidance anymore, and his fingers slid from her grasp and curled around her neck, a thumb rubbing her jaw absent-mindedly.

‘You will need to do your usual duties, of course. Welcomes, bringing drinks, proving yourself a good daughter to your father. Can you do that, sweetling?’

His fingers drummed against her neck, and a keening sound slipped from her throat, full of satisfaction.

‘Of course, my Lord – father.’

‘I am glad to hear it. I needn’t remind you how important it is to make our guests comfortable, and you are so good at it. Quite the natural.’ He let out a deep breath, almost a sigh.

But the gentle drum of his fingers stopped abruptly, and he interrupted their shared comfort with a more cutting tone, his hand now still around the side of her neck. ‘Though it will, of course, mean less time spent with your beloved Sweetrobin. I haven’t forgotten how difficult it appeared to be for you to leave him this morning, even when you knew I wanted you to.’

Sansa said nothing; silence seemed preferable to saying the wrong thing. But once again this seemed to be what Littlefinger wanted, and he filled the uncomfortable stillness for her.

‘I’m afraid that in the future you may have to adjust to being without the child. Perhaps it is best to begin your practice now, for the good of us both?’

Sansa nodded slowly, and as a sign of approval Baelish’s fingers returned to brush her jaw, all-too briefly. He shifted his knee so she could no longer rest against it, and so she turned to face the fire. His fingers returned to her hair, weaving through the roots, seeming to take pleasure in feeling the softness against his own smooth skin.

The fierce glow of the fire warmed them both as they stared into the flames, almost scorching Sansa through her thick woollen gown. But as she adjusted herself to lean against Littlefinger's leg again, and as her eyelids began to drift closed, it was only the heat against her skin that reassured her that this wasn't all a dream. Despite the dangerous game he had reminded her she was playing, Sansa could think of nothing more than the glorious ease, the glorious comfort, she felt at that very moment. 


	13. Myranda

The Royces arrived with little fanfare. Their climb over the Giant’s Lance to the Eyrie had been long and difficult, and the mood throughout the Vale was increasingly against ostentatious displays of wealth and grandeur – even if their absence left Sansa bored out of her wits. As they waited in the Crescent Chamber for the small coterie to arrive, she stood dutifully a few steps behind Lord Baelish, head bowed – a position befitting her station, she supposed – but she couldn’t help but peek through her eyelashes as the doors creaked open.

Petyr had tested her on her knowledge of the visitors, a test she had passed with flying colours, so she was able to identify each by their face after only a small glance. Ser Nestor Royce, huge and intimidating, led the way, followed by his son Ser Albar after him, almost as tall and proud-looking.  Finally Myranda appeared, a small grin on her face, visible even from a distance.

Petyr had already strode forwards to greet the two men, ignoring Myranda, who looked at Sansa just long enough to glance at the men and roll her eyes. Sansa stifled a laugh as she looked away, waiting for them to finish and tell her what they needed. After a few more moments, punctuated by almost-uncomfortable laughter, Petyr turned to her.

‘You all remember my natural daughter, Alayne?’

‘Yes,’ boomed Ser Nestor, ‘you needn’t introduce her every time. I’m not one to forget such a pretty face.’ She could feel their gazes boring into her, and she blushed as she looked back to the floor to avoid the stares. Where did these Lords learn how to make young women feel naked with one glance?

‘Very true, Ser,’ answered Petyr. ‘Well, perhaps she could fetch us some Arbor Gold and bring it to us in my solar, my supply has run short. And some bread, too.’ He moved closer to her, gripping her shoulder with his hand, giving it a fatherly squeeze, before he motioned the Lords towards the door. They swept through, leaving her and Myranda abruptly alone.

‘Well,’ said the older girl, watching the door close, ‘nice of them to wish me goodbye. Typical men, they don’t give a shit about you until they want something.’ She turned to face Sansa, and she could already see that her brown eyes were sparkling with mischief. That mischief never seemed to leave those eyes, and she couldn’t tell if that amused or scared her.

Sansa knew Myranda would have a lot to discuss with her, because she had foolishlygiven her too shared too much information about herself. Baelish’s words came back to haunt her – beware Myranda Royce, he had said. ‘ _She likes to play the merry fool, but underneath she’s shrewder than her father. Guard your tongue around her._ ’ Well, she had certainly failed to do that. Myranda pushed the large door open, leaning against it to prop it open.

‘So, shall we go fetch the wine for the noble men, little one? And you can tell me all about what you’ve been up to since I last saw you!’ She winked conspiratorially as Sansa moved to take her arm, and they moved together down the stairs.

As they walked towards the kitchen, Sansa managed to keep redirecting Myranda’s questions towards more banal subjects than the latter clearly intended. She was busy thinking, planning even. Why did she mistrust the girl who was leading her, ever faster, down the hall? Because Petyr had told her to. Doing what Petyr had told her had kept her alive so far, but it also kept her trapped. To do whatever he wanted her to do.

Myranda had only been a friend to her so far, and though she had learnt to distrust those who smiled too easily and seemed overly kind to her – because they so often became the worst of people - she had given her no other reason to do so. And she knew so much about Alayne already – she couldn’t risk such a popular figure turning against her if she tried to pull away. Within an instant she resolved to follow Randa’s lead. If it was all an illusion, if indeed she hid a shrewd mind behind a jolly pretence, then she would see her mirror image in Sansa.

A brief silence has fallen while these thoughts were flitting through Sansa’s mind, so she pulled Randa closer by their joined arms, and whispered into the air between them. Randa’s loose, curly brown hair brushed against her cheek as she leant towards her.

‘Fine, fine. I’ll tell you everything. But later! It’s nothing that interesting anyway, I fear you’re excited for very little…’

‘Oh Alayne, you have no idea how little gossip I come across at the Gates of the Moon. Fun, yes, games, yes, but so little intrigue.’ Sansa shot her a little glare, half-joking, and Randa laughed and quickly corrected herself. ‘Not that your situation is gossip to me, my dear, you must know that. It’s just I have so little opportunity to share the – well - expertise I’ve gathered over the years. But don’t worry Alayne, even if I had anyone to tell, or who wanted to know, I wouldn’t tell for all the world. It’s our little secret.’

Once they reached the kitchen, Sansa left Randa in the little alcove she had become so familiar with, not without a twinge of silly embarrassment on her own behalf. She didn’t want to risk being in the same room as Randa and Bosley at the same time, but looking around she breathed a sigh of relief to notice that he wasn’t there. As the kitchen maids went to fetch her some wine and water from the cellar, she emerged to pass Randa some bread to carry, and within a matter of moments they were traipsing up the stairs to Petyr’s solar.

‘So this is where Littlefinger sleeps, is it?’ Randa asked as they emerged onto the floor of his chambers. ‘I won’t forget that!’

There was that uncomfortable twinge again, but Sansa ignored it. ‘No, he sleeps in another room. This is just where he works, and has guests.’

‘Such a shame. I was curious to see if he had a bed – I hear he doesn’t sleep at all, just sits and plots all night.’

Sansa tensed up slightly, but they were close to his solar, so she knew the discomfort of this conversation wouldn’t last much longer. ‘I wouldn’t know,’ she whispered. ‘He doesn’t share his plots with me, if that is the case.’ As they approached the door, she motioned that they should be quiet. ‘And, he is just a man. I’m fairly certain he must sleep sometimes.’ She knocked on the door before they could say anything more, and stepped through with the food and drink.

The men had drawn their seats to the ever-burning fire, but turned as the door opened. Sansa couldn’t help but notice that Randa pushed slightly ahead, moving towards Littlefinger first, leaving her to pour the drinks out for the Royces and set the bread upon the table. Ser Albar was staring at her, that piercing gaze again, but it felt different somehow – almost possessive. She moved to pour out their wine at a small table, to avoid having to get to close to him, and watched Myranda while she did it.

Littlefinger had grabbed an empty cup from the table, and Randa dropped to her knees to pour it. It looked like nothing, but Sansa knew that the flirtatious girl was trying to catch his eye – if she thought she was being subtle by offering Petyr that view of her breasts in her low-cut dress, she was entirely wrong. She watched from the corner of her eye as she carried the wine glasses to Ser Nestor and Ser Albar, curiosity mingling with something less pleasant in her gut. But Petyr’s eyes merely flitted down for a moment, filled with dispassion, before he looked back up again and met Sansa’s eyes. She couldn’t help the small smile that filled her face as both she and Randa accepted his thanks, and left the room once more.

‘Well, what now?’ asked Myranda. If she was disappointed at the lack of attention she had received, she certainly wasn’t showing it. Sometimes Sansa forgot it wasn’t always about life or death; some people joked and flirted and laughed with no hidden agenda. She hoped she was right about this vivacious girl beside her. It would be a novel change.

‘I suppose we find somewhere to sit, and wait for them to call for us again,’ she said with a smile. ‘You know men. They don’t give a shit about you until the want something.’


	14. Hostesses

They had been called again for more wine and food, though Baelish’s glass had rarely seemed to empty during the short time they spent in his solar. Sansa had watched him carefully. He brought the glass to his lips, appeared to drink, but the amount in his glass never seemed to lessen. Meanwhile, his guests demanded more and more, until the table was strewn with empty bottles; and talk became so bawdy that Littlefinger had suggested the ladies leave the room. As she left he caught her eye, and held it for a moment too long. It seemed both thanks and a warning, and the memory of his head buried between her legs rose unbidden in her mind. Every glance between them felt like a promise of more to come; it was all it would take to have her twitching with lust, hard as she fought not to show it.

She made a note of what she had learnt: even with his supposed allies, Littlefinger remained guarded. It was to be expected, she supposed. It was in the man’s nature to be wary, ever vigilant, to listen and discover what he could from other men’s loosened tongues. It reaffirmed what he was forever telling her, and what life has sought to teach her over and over – trust nobody. Rely on as few people as it is possible to rely on. Appear to know less than you do. She didn’t know if this was a way she wanted to live, the way she could live, but the more she thought on it the more sensible the idea became. Nonetheless, she couldn’t help but recall that in her presence, he seemed to drink freely. In fact, he spoke fairly freely, and of late certainly acted more freely than she had ever seen him do before. She wished she could have seen him with her Mother. To know if she was more than a useful pawn; or if his recklessness around her meant something more.   
  
After being dismissed, Sansa and Myranda had at last felt free to finish preparing the guest’s rooms. Most of them had been done by the servants already, but the highborn lady beneath Alayne's mask thought it always best to check. She liked to add some finishing touches: making sure the guest had a pale of water by the bed, placing some pressed flowers so that the room smelt sweet. Myranda, in turn, laughed at her fussiness – as long as the wine was flowing, all would be well, she said. It was a day filled of fun and laughter; it was simple friendship, it was rare, and Sansa treasured it above almost anything.

The sun had long since set when the pair could at last retire to the room they would share for the night. Now, Sansa was watching from the bed as Myranda changed into her night things in front of the mirror, confident and unashamed. Her limbs ached with tiredness as she lay back to rest at the foot of the bed, and she stretched her back with a yawn. Having another girl in her room reminded Sansa of her childhood years, sharing a bed with Jeyne Poole, whispering Winterfell gossip back and forth. She smiled with the memory. But a moment later she pulled her gown tighter around herself, and shivered; the air was cold despite the burning fire, and happy memories did little to keep her warm.

She could still hear Randa chattering as she changed, posing in front of the mirror and examining her body from various angles, loudly critiquing what she saw. From where Sansa sat, she could see why Randa seemed to have such appeal to the men of the Vale, with wide hips and large, full breasts - the opposite of her own slender frame. But most of all it was her almost obscene confidence, the fierce intelligence and experience behind those brown eyes, which drew her in, as it did so many others. As such, she couldn’t help but giggle at the other girl’s unconvincing humility.

When Randa finally turned back to face the bed she could see that she was cold too, her skin goosepimpled, and her full nipples hard and visible under the thin cloth of her nightgown. Their eyes met, and they laughed together as they simultaneously dove under the thick bedsheets, scrambling for cover from the ever-frigid air.

‘So,’ whispered Randa, once they had gotten settled again, the sheets tucked up to their chins, ‘your dear Lord father remains unmarried. What is he waiting for?’ She wiggled her toes under the sheet, looking down at them as she waited for an answer, a cheeky grin on her face.

As when Randa had last asked such a question, Sansa grew uncomfortable, drawing away slightly. ‘I don’t know. I think he still mourns Lady Lysa, and he chooses not to marry again in her memory.’

‘Or, he knows he must wait until he has silenced his opposition before getting distracted by another woman’s cunny.’ Sansa gasped, and a hot blush rose in her cheeks. She thanked the gods Randa couldn’t see it in the dim glow of the fire, though she supposed that reaction had been her intention anyway.

‘Myranda, you can’t say things like that.’

‘Oh can I not? And are you going to stop me?’ She paused and propped herself up on her elbow. ‘I don’t think so. You’re much too small and pretty to put up too much of a fight. Though I suppose you would surprise me…’

Her voice dropped off, as if she was thinking. Once the moment had passed, she shuffled closer and enfolded Sansa in her arms. The warmth of her body against Sansa’s was welcome in the biting cold. Sansa stayed silent for a while, her reflexive blush fading fast. Her companion was quiet too, for a while, before she whispered again, conspiratorially.

‘So, Alayne, you must tell me. That letter I sent you… did you heed my advice? You never said, but I guessed when you asked for that recipe that you’d done one better. I’ve been reading through our letters on my journey here so I didn’t forget a single detail. Tell me everything!’

Sansa tensed up beside her, even though she’d been prepared for the question. The one thing she knew, now at least, was that she’d been a fool to give a notorious gossip as much information as she had, and even worse to give her written evidence. But she pulled herself together to give the answer she had prepared, and hoped that the opinion she’d formed on Randa’s trustworthiness was the right one.

‘Well, what I told you… it happened every night for weeks. I think I was going mad, those dreams – they made me think of doing things I should never think of doing. And I… I did what you said I should do, once or twice, but the dreams didn’t stop.’ She lowered her voice even further, until it was barely audible. ‘So, I asked you about the tea, which was foolish. But I didn’t need it, honestly.’

Randa gave an exaggerated groan, evidently disappointed. ‘Look,’ she sighed, ‘you know you don’t need to lie to me. Who are we of any import in the grand scheme of things? And heaven knows I’ve known some men I probably shouldn’t have known…’

‘I’m not lying to you. I took your first… piece of advice, and that’s the end of it. In all honesty, who on earth would there be for me to… you know. This whole castle is full of old men!’

‘Oh I’m sure there’d be someone who’d be willing, though hardly the gallant knights you delicate types fancy. But, I’ll take your word for it. How boring! Though, I suppose, even playing with yourself is a big step for an innocent little soul like you.’

Sansa gasped yet again, as she always did around Myranda Royce, and rolled over for a second to slap her playfully on the arm. ‘Shh!’ She fell back, but couldn’t stop the giggles rising in her throat, until they were both laughing, only stopping when they ran short of breath.

Slowly they fell back to silence, the crackle of the dying fire the only accompaniment to their thoughts. Sansa began to think of actually sleeping, and welcomed the comfort of Randa’s body against hers- but her thoughts were interrupted when a hand settled on her hip. She lay still, unsure if it was an accident, but the hand was sliding down, falling between her legs over her nightgown. Sansa’s mouth fell open in shock, and she went rigid as Randa’s fingers pressed firm against her.

‘So,’ whispered Randa behind her. ‘You’ve never had someone touch you like this, not even once?’ She sounded positively appalled, and her fingers drummed lightly on top of the material of her gown.


	15. Because I Like You

‘No! Of course not,’ Sansa lied. She was shocked, but for some reason couldn’t bring herself to move the hand away. She knew she should be protesting, but the probing fingers were bringing a peculiar amount of comfort.

‘And your dreams, still driving you mad with desire?’

‘I… I- don’t… what are you doing?’

‘What all girls do for their dearest friends, silly.’ Sansa was frozen, and Myranda rested her chin in the nook of her shoulder. ‘Go on, I’ll help you out, just move your legs so I can get at you.’

Sansa hardly knew what she was doing as she obeyed, feeling Randa’s teasing fingers pressing into the bundle of cloth between her thighs. This was so foolish – she certainly doubted that this was truly a custom she had not heard of before. But she was going along with it blindly – and Myranda’s fingers suddenly crooked, and she bucked automatically.

‘You see,’ whispered Randa, her breath hot against her neck, ‘with men, you can’t trust that they’ll give your pleasure a second thought. They think of their own rods and that’s it. But your girlfriends, they know what you like, and how to do it.’ The fingers gently parted the material, so only a thin layer of cloth lay between them and Sansa’s sex. She whimpered as another finger pushed firmly against her most sensitive spot. ‘What this does for instance. But shh now, we can’t be too loud. Others will want to join us.’

Sansa’s body was trembling as her friend continued to toy with her, blood rushing between her legs. She wanted to tell her she was wrong and was biting her tongue, before Randa stopped abruptly.

‘Turn round, you little thing, I want to see your face!’ She was still laughing, light-hearted even now – it reassured Sansa that it was indeed a game, nothing serious, and she relaxed slightly. She felt the other girl shift and sit up, and as she turned she saw her pull her flimsy nightgown over her head, and throw it to the ground. Sansa followed suit, tentatively at first, but encouraged by Randa’s nod, she was soon bare to the night air too.

Sansa took the chance to look at her friend closely. Her body was so very different to her own, full, and soft. Her chest she stared at in particular fascination - as much as she could see it in the flickering light, anyway. Randa must have seen though, as she grabbed Sansa’s hand and brought it to her left breast. She could feel the hardened nipple underneath her palm, and she felt a twinge between her legs at the erotic novelty of it all. Randa started to move Sansa’s hand, slowly. ‘Just do what would feel good for you,’ she said, ‘and it’ll probably be good for me too.’ Sansa swelled with pride as a brush of her thumb brought a low moan from her partner’s lips. Randa’s eyes swept her body, and she recognised lust within them. Was this was more than mutual relief between friends?

‘They’re right, you know,’ Randa gasped. ‘You do have a pretty body, underneath those boring brown dresses you wear. You should show it off more.’ Two fingers dove again to Sansa’s core, gathering her wetness before returning to that sweet, glorious spot. Somehow, to Sansa, suppressing the moans of pleasure was something enjoyable in itself, and she could feel herself losing control by the moment. This was free from consequence, this was simply pleasure. She hardly heard Randa’s next words as she writhed against those fingers, arms locked behind her to hold her upright.

‘Well, since you seem to be enjoying this so much, let’s try something that’s even better for both of us.’

Sansa’s head was falling back, her body feeling slow and heavy. Barely listening, she nodded anyway. She was building, building, feeling like she was almost there, and Randa had pulled away – she just wanted anything to set off that explosion she craved. 

Soon Sansa felt her throw back the sheets, sliding Sansa forward so she sat, legs apart, in the centre of the bed. She reached down, feeling Sansa's wetness and spreading it between her legs, until she was slick with it - instinctively Sansa did the same to Myranda, earning a low groan of pleasure in return. Then she seemed to entwine herself around her, weaving their legs until the sex of each of them were pressed against the other's thigh.

Once this was done, Randa slid her hands under Sansa's arms and around her back, easing her balance forward until their breasts were pressed hard together. The fire was down to embers, but Sansa could just about see the satisfied grin as she pressed down, and Sansa felt the pressure against her leg. ‘Now,’ whispered Randa, and she started to move, ‘kind of grind on me, like this.’

In the throes of pleasure Sansa forgot to feign confusion, greedily pressing herself against her partner as they established some rhythm. It was frustrating but wonderful, their speed gathering, lips bitten to keep from making noise. They were holding each other’s hands so tightly they could hardly breathe; too distracted to even lean in for a kiss, Sansa bit down on her lip so hard she tasted blood. On and on it went, their bodies starting to sweat with the effort, both pursuing something just out of reach. Randa started to fall apart first, her leg rising forwards to press against Sansa with more force, inadvertently speeding Sansa’s pleasure along too, until finally they both cried silently into the dark, bodies spent and trembling.

Collapsing back onto the bed they lay in the dark for a while, silent as their breathing returned to normal. Sansa didn’t know what to say – should she speak first? She hadn’t known that what they just did was even possible. Myranda certainly was a woman of the world.

‘Alayne,’ she finally heard, a whisper from the body beside her. ‘Do you feel better now?’

Words stalled in her mouth. It was a rare feeling – satisfaction, her body sated, with no element of fear or wariness. With the warmth of another body against hers, and the companionship of a mind as sharp as she would have hers be. ‘Yes’ she answered, sure in her reply. ‘A lot…’

‘Look, my dear,’ said Randa resolutely, and Sansa heard her get up to fetch her nightgown. ‘I’ve grown to like you. You’re a sweet girl, much too sweet for a bastard, if you don’t mind me saying.’ Sansa was much too occupied to feign affront, so Randa continued. ‘When you first sent me your letters, I was greatly amused, but I also feared for you. What I’ve told you is information everyone should have – that it’s dangerous not to have. But men don’t like to know we have it, all the same.’

The bed bounced slightly as Randa climbed back on and under the sheets. Sansa, her body chilling now, moved off to find her clothes too, listening in silence as she did so.

‘So, I’ve brought your letter with me. To do with whatever you will. Of course if you trust me, I’m happy to keep them – they do make me laugh so – but if someone should come across them and use them to take advantage of you, I wouldn’t forgive myself.’

As the material of her gown settled over Sansa’s shoulders, confusion and relief fought for dominance in her mind. She had been full of plans to steal the letter away – could it truly be this simple? Nothing ever was, nothing could be. She slipped back into bed, hesitating still.

‘Why?’ was all she could ask.

‘Because I like you. Because the Eyrie is boring, even at the Gates. Because you remind me of me, probably. Think about what the smart move is, my dear. I’m happy to be your friend, and I will never betray you, but I cannot speak for anyone but myself – and you will have to decide if you will trust even that.’

With that Randa turned away, pulling the sheet over herself, leaving Sansa alone with her thoughts.


	16. Friendship

The next morning it was as though nothing had happened. They were awoken early – both back in their prim nightgowns, naturally – and Randa had left to see to her father and brother. Sansa took full advantage of her unexpected period of solitude – namely, by looking through the visitor’s travelling chest, methodically removing and replacing each item until she found what she was after. It was a small roll of letters, tied together closely with a thin red ribbon. She sat down to read the note she herself had sent, recalling the hours she had spent composing it. It was a bizarre thing - half a formal written letter, in the style which her Septa had taught her and which she struggled to shake off - but it was also a secretive confession, like those she would have written to Jeyne Pool when she was ignoring her Septa entirely.

_Dearest Randa_ , it read,

_I am glad all is well, and I pray all remains well by the time this letter reaches you! Hearing your tales serves me well in the many quiet moments in the Eyrie. As for myself – well, in all honesty, I find myself suffering from an affliction I have never encountered before. I hope that as my closest friend (or as close as we have become), you can advise me._

_Naturally this is the utmost secret (though barely important), but for many weeks now I have found my sleep interrupted by strange dreams. A man with no face_ – (what a lie, Sansa thought) _– sits facing me. He get up, and touches me all over. But instead of moving, I sit there, as his hands torture me – and when I awake, I am hot, sweating, with my stomach in knots. I am haunted by these nightmares, night after night – I’ve had so little sleep, I wonder how I am still standing by noon of the next day._

_But worst, I find myself craving after the company of men – and they are few and far between here. I’m not stupid – I know what this feeling means – I just want to know how to get rid of it! Surely all flowered women don’t spend their days feeling like this?! I have few women friends, and I hope you read and answer this letter in the spirit it was written – a sisterly one._

_Thank you for all your (anticipated) help –_

_A S._

Sansa could see the slight blur of ink on the ‘A’, where she had absent-mindedly forgotten her character and started to draw the large upper curl of an ‘S’ shape. In the light of later wisdom she rued the naivety evident in every hurried scribble. But as she now recognised, she only realised her own mistakes once she’d suffered the crushing repercussions. She had never been good at predicting the future – she only seemed to learn from bitter experience. In the grand scheme of things, this was one of the more trivial errors of judgement.

Nonetheless, for a moment a dangerous idea fleeted through her mind – should she keep them? Resolve the issue here and now? She could throw her own letters onto the fire too, leaving no trace of her foolishness. There were other letters there, more incriminating ones – ones in which she asked for more details on moon tea, which had provoked jokingly appalled responses from Randa.  But surely they would be missed – Randa had told her how she liked to look at them. It took great effort for Sansa to decide she would place some trust in her guest, and not seize the opportunity which lay before her. With great care she folded the fragile paper and fit it back in to the roll of letters, before putting them back in the chest.

Those letters thus remained intact, but Randa’s response was nought but ashes now. But this mattered little; Sansa remembered every word like they had been seared into her skin.

_Dearest Alayne,_ it had read,

_Your letter amused me greatly for a while, but the more I have come to think on it, the more concerned I am, as a woman and a friend. How much you have to learn! I will give you some advice, and may I recommend you show this letter to no one? For your good and mine…_

_We women have so few weapons in the world, and I laugh to keep from crying over your ignorance of one of your own. Our lust is the mirror of a man’s, which surely you must have seen before. When they feel it, what they keep in their small things gets hard and grows. That’s when they crave what’s between your legs. When you feel it, you feel a burning deep down, and this means you crave what they have. Clearly, you have spent too much time around unattractive men, if you fail to recognise the feeling!_

_I have one suggestion for you. As a young, somewhat eligible lady as you are, I of course cannot suggest you find a man to cure your ailment! Not that I would ever suggest such a thing to any maiden. No._

_I want you, when you are sure you will not be disturbed and before you dress for the night, to stand in front of your mirror. Examine yourself, your body. Note that almost all men who see you are imagining what you are seeing – it’s a fact of life. They value you first for your body, and then, if they must, for your brain. Then touch yourself – no don’t throw this note away in disgust (I imagine you were considering it!) but remember that you feel lust just like a man, and like a man you can sate it whenever. Find what feels good. Touch yourself where you are hot and wet, between your legs. When you find the spot that makes you tremble, play with it until you find relief. If you go down further, you can try your fingers inside yourself – this is where the man’s hardness goes. Imitate it with your fingers._

_There is no reason we women should go unsatisfied while men roam freely, ploughing their cocks into any lady they find, willing or unwilling. As I said, men are not eager to accept a woman’s intelligence and knowledge. But if you make this inseparable from your body – if you know it, how to use it, how it affects them – then they will be more ready to recognise it in you in other ways. It makes it impossible for a man to separate the mind and the body, to ignore the woman whose treasures they seek to plunder._

_To escape your ignorance of your body, Alayne - that is a woman’s true flowering._

_M R  x_  
  


She was still hearing Randa’s words in her head when the door creaked open, and the person in question stepped through the door. Their eyes met, and any expectation of awkwardness faded immediately away as a broad grin spread across the girl's face. The door slammed shut, and Randa knelt on the stone floor to face Sansa, taking her hands in her own. There was a sense of urgency in how she gripped her fingers, tightly.

‘Alayne, my love. You’ll have to help me pack. I’m afraid we are leaving earlier than planned – either negotiations have gone very well or terribly, but it’s so hard to tell in so little time. My brother merely told me to gather my things – if we leave now we can do the majority of the journey in daylight.’

Sansa’s heart dropped – it was so little time, she had enjoyed hardly a day with the companionship of another girl.

‘So soon?’

‘I’m sorry. All those notes and letters, and my visit is so brief! You know I would love to stay, and spend more time with you.’ She was rubbing the inside of Sansa’s palms with her thumbs now, an intimate gesture, and one which brought to mind all that had passed the night before.

‘But first, I have gift for you.’ She stood, moving over to the chest and lifting the lid Sansa had so carefully closed just moments ago. She reached in and lifted out the letters - in her nervousness, Sansa could almost see her great red guilty fingerprints upon them. But Randa merely pulled out the letter she had just read, then another few, holding them out to Sansa, who sat stupefied on the floor.

‘Take these. Do what you will with them. Take them as a token of my affection, and as a sign that you can trust in me, and you need never fear that I will betray you.’ She shook the letter, motioning for Sansa to take it, as she did with trembling hands. ‘I insist we keep writing – but, perhaps, we shall have to read and write more between the lines than we have done…’

Sansa stood, moving to put the letters in a drawer of her wardrobe. When she came back she surprised Myranda by kissing her firmly on the mouth, a kiss of relief and resolution. Her problems were solved. They were solved because Randa was good, and so was she – because they found pleasure, both mental and physical, in each other’s company. No matter what machinations occurred with her and Littlefinger, she could rest easy in the knowledge that she had made a friend and ally, all by herself. If needs be she could do it again, and again, until she didn’t need Littlefinger at all.


	17. Progress

The Royces were waved away with as little fanfare as they had arrived, just hours before. Sansa saw them off with a smile, as the Lady of the household ought to; yet her insides felt as cold and firm as steel. Littlefinger stood beside her, watching as the group gathered. Randa was flitting around in the background, ensuring all their things were ready to go – including her own travelling chest, now a few letters lighter.

Ser Albar made a point of wishing Sansa goodbye, bringing her hand within his to his rough lips and planting a kiss on her skin. She smiled submissively and said she hoped their next visit would be a longer one; she couldn’t fail to see Ser Albar’s eyes flit toward Littlefinger for an instant, before he moved away.

As the group left, Baelish’s hand had come to rest on the small of her back. She didn’t move, or try to shrug him away – but the possessive gesture only made her feel more sure of herself, for some reason. After a few shouted words of goodbye from Baelish to Ser Nestor, the doors were closed behind them. Silence echoed throughout the halls once more.

‘Well, my dear, Ser Albar certainly seemed to take a shine to you,’ laughed Baelish.

‘I wouldn’t know, Father. I didn’t have much time to speak to him.’

His head spun round to face her. As ever, not a hair was out of place. She wondered how he found the time to be so perfectly groomed. She had taken to leaving her own hair undone, or twisted in a simple braid. Like her mother.

‘Now now. It’s not flattering to speak so sharply, particularly not to your father.’

‘I’m sorry. But I have to wonder why you sent them away so quickly, when they’d come all this way to see you.’

They still stood shoulder to shoulder, staring at the closed door ahead of them. Although they were alone in the Crescent Chamber, he seemed to think better of having their conversation there, and instead moved towards the door at the rear of the room. He knocked on the door and the guards on the other side swung it open. Marching through, Sansa was unsure if he intended her to follow, but she did so anyway.

They were nearly silent as they climbed the stairs to his solar, Sansa’s comments to him going largely unanswered. When they finally reached his door he opened it before her, gesturing for her to go through.

The fire inside was roaring, as usual. He has spent too long in King’s Landing, she thought. After so many months, he has yet to adjust to the cold. Once they were inside, he spoke again.

‘The Royces came here to discuss a variety of topics; and once they were done, we mutually decided it was best they returned to the Gates of the Moon as soon as possible.’

Baelish moved towards the fire, staring into its depths. Sansa decided somewhat boldly to take a seat in one of the chairs; he glanced at her briefly before returning his gaze to the flames.

‘Also, Lord Nestor needs occasional reminders of his place. Such an inconvenience as climbing up and down the mountain will do well to humble him. So keeping his visit short was convenient for us.’

Of course. It made sense. Lord Nestor had arrived agitated, and left that way; but at least he had looked slightly more modest on his way out. Baelish had paused for a moment, but continued.

‘I can only apologise if you felt Myranda’s visit was too brief. But I think that’s for the best, don’t you?’

She looked up at him, catching his gaze. She remembered his warning about Myranda, of course – but why would he put them in the same room if he was so troubled by her influence?

‘I suppose you like having the company. I understand that. But you must realise that Myranda is a gossip and untrustworthy. And hardly a good influence for a lady. I imagine she told you all about her father and brothers’ intentions?’

‘No, she didn’t.’

‘Pity. I was hoping her insistence on sharing your chamber would benefit us somehow. What did you talk about?’

Sansa’s mind whirled. So Littlefinger had no choice over where Myranda had stayed – he could hardly have denied her request to stay with her, a perfectly reasonable one for two girls of similar age and station. She picked at her nails in apparent boredom.

‘Very little. Nothing worth talking about has happened here in years.’ He chuckled at her exaggeration and sat down opposite her, leaning back in his chair. It was a substantial thing, with solid oak panels for sides and arms, and soft leather lining on the seat. For some reason, she hadn’t been quite brave enough to sit there; it was his.

‘I would have thought you’d have realised by now that gossip has its price. Amusement for you is someone else’s misery. There’s no use in enjoying it for its own sake – gather the information and leverage you can from it and move on.’

He was watching her intently, one eyebrow slightly raised and a smirk on his lips. The room was dark, the windows shaded despite the fact that it was barely the afternoon. She returned his stare. Tired of playing the fool, she allowed a similar smile to rise on her face too.

‘But if I can’t gossip or spend my time with Myranda, what can I do?’ She glanced at her fingers, picking at the embroidery on her simple skirts, before shifting to look back at him. ‘Just tell me, Father.’

He seemed to deliberate for a moment - or at least he made a show of doing so, tipping his head back and pursing his lips. Eventually he spoke again.

‘While Nestor and Albar were here, they brought up something which may interest you. They were wondering, now my position is so secure, who you were to be married off to.’

Her heart faltered for a moment, an effect the idea of marriage often had on her.

‘But… you told me I was to marry Lord Robert-’

‘As remains the plan. They need not know that of course. And as the idea of my union with their darling Myranda is out of the question, they dropped some heavy suggestions regarding your future.’ He paused, seeming to enjoy her discomfort. ‘None of which I will listen to. Nonetheless, it made me think back to our little plan, and preparations which must be made for it.’

Suddenly the room seemed hotter, the distance between the two of them remarkably small.

‘Preparations?’

‘Come sit here, sweetling,’ he said, patting the seat of his chair next to his thighs. She moved to kneel on the floor, as she had a fortnight before. The only way she could rest comfortably was to slip back, her hand resting on the floor between his legs for stability, her back propped against the chair. Once she was stable she moved her hand to toy with the leather of his boots, somewhat absentmindedly.

‘You can take them off, if you will,’ came his voice from above her.

She brought her other hand round, tugging at the boots as he lifted his legs one at a time, until they slid off his feet. She left them neatly under the chair she had been sat on, before settling back once more. She realised this was the most of his skin she had ever seen.

‘Much better.’ His fingers curled in his hair again. Unlike last time, Sansa didn’t think it would end here. Something about the whole thing felt strange; something about this almost paternal position, the fact it was the middle of the day, her prickling skin, the intimacy of the taking off his clothes, her imagination running away with itself. Her chest felt heavy as her breaths got increasingly shallow.

‘When, one day, you marry Harrold, he will have very different expectations of you than our dear Sweetrobin.’ It was blunt, but effective, and Sansa fought to take a quiet but deep breath. ‘Do you understand?’ She nodded, twisting to look up at him. His fingers stroked at her hair, but she noticed that his thumb was concentrating on her roots – her slightly red roots.

‘He will be expecting an experienced widow, my dear. A widow with certain knowledge… well, you know what I mean, don’t you?’

She couldn’t decide in that moment whether to act shocked or not. Littlefinger couldn’t know how much of her naivety was knocked out of her in Kings Landing, and it would be easier to pretend she had gained this knowledge there than to start all over. She nodded, but when he started to talk again she interrupted, struck with daring.

‘Yes, I think I know what you mean.’ She knelt and spun on her knees, parting his legs firmly, quickly enough that he couldn’t stop her if he’d wanted to. She felt him sit bolt upright, but refusing to look upwards, she fumbled with the bottom button of his short flared doublet, revealing his crotch. Unflatteringly he wasn’t already hard – so with the palm of her hand she brushed him, firmly, feeling the length of him against her skin through the material.

He was conspicuously silent above her as she brushed her fingers against the bundled material between his legs, feeling his length twitch after a moment or two. Careful not to catch his eye, she rose from her knees, using one hand to stabilise herself on the arm of the chair as the other continued its work. Turning her back towards him, she settled in the gap between his side and the oak panel which formed the arm. Curling into his chest, she swung one arm around the back of the chair, and her innermost leg came over his until she was just about comfortable. From this position she could hear his controlled breathing; focusing on it, she brought her hand up to undo the button of his trousers, sliding it inside until she could wrap his hand around his cock.

 

 

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A/N: In celebration of the Season 4 trailer, here's another chapter! Here's to the ultimate creepyship.

P.S. If anyone can think of a sexier alternative to 'testicles', PLEASE let me know... I'm dying here :/


	18. Power Play

She hadn’t been able to stop herself fantasising about how it was to go, her relationship with Baelish. Though her thoughts had matured in nature, she had always been a dreamer, with ideals of how things should happen. Everything needed a storyline, a progression. She had nearly always imagined that her story might end in some kind of chivalrous redemption, part of an all-consuming romance. That the reality wouldn’t be so clear was becoming increasingly obvious with every exchange, every encounter, every intimate touch.

As she wrapped her hand around his length he shifted, seeming to shake himself out of his surprised stupor. He coughed slightly as she began to move her hand gently up and down his lengthening member, before he brought a hand up to tuck a stray strand of hair behind her ear.

‘Now,’ he muttered, staring over her head, ‘where did you learn this, sweetling?’

Sansa continued watching the movements beneath the thin material of his trousers, her grip tightening slightly. Her nerves and excitement made her stomach flutter, and something heavy was pooling deep down within her, pulling at her insides. Despite this, a certain level of detachment filled her – was that her hand, moving up and down? Had he asked her a question, just then? Her limbs felt heavy and separate from her body, somehow. Her answer came out without much consideration as she tried to pull herself back, back into her body.

‘Some of the Kingsguard liked to tell me things I would be expected to do on my wedding night… for both of my marriages.’ By now Littlefinger’s cock was upright in her hand, and she shifted so her wrist wasn’t angled too awkwardly. As she reached the base she unwrapped her fingers, using them to brush at his testicles, and his head dropped back against the chair. ‘A couple of times they decided I had to see what they meant,’ she continued, ‘and they made me watch what men do on their own. I think he told them to.’

She didn’t need to be any clearer in this elaborate lie: the hint was enough. Littlefinger murmured something under his breath; Sansa couldn’t tell if it was condemnation or thanks. She looked up at him for the first time, stalling completely.

‘Is this ok? Am I doing it right?’ She let her voice tremble slightly, which wasn’t too hard given the energy in her veins, energy which fought against her will to make her body shiver.

He looked back towards her, but this time it was him who refused to meet her gaze for more than a moment. ‘Yes, yes.’ His own hand came to urge hers on, holding it firmly for a while before he leant back again.

In the process of shuffling in the seat, Baelish’s trousers has moved down, enough that as Sansa’s hand started to move again she could see the head of his length - swollen and pink, leaking slightly. She brushed her thumb across it, spreading the juices to ease the movement of her hand, and his hips bucked up almost imperceptibly.

It was quickly apparent to Sansa that Baelish was not a man to get overwhelmed by pleasure very easily. She supposed it made sense – he could not be inexperienced, in his line of business. Therefore her strongest power was that of surprise. So with that she shifted backwards, twisting down until she could plant a kiss on that exposed head, pursing her lips, then spreading them until she was taking him into her mouth.

‘Sansa,’ he gasped. It startled her, hearing her real name out loud, and in the deep rasping voice of a man’s pleasure too. The position she was in was awkward, so she slipped to the floor, back to her previous kneeling pose, where she could tug at the top of his trousers and pull them down over his hardness, moving her mouth towards him-

But then he stopped her. The fingers which had begun to weave through her hair pushed her away, and she moved backwards. When she dared look up at him he had hidden himself again, the mound of his hardness barely visible under his doublet; but she noticed his fingers digging into the chair’s wooden sides, almost carving little grooves, and the way he wasn’t looking directly at her spoke of his passion. She struggled to her feet.

‘I’m sorry my Lord – I – I thought men liked that kind of thing.’ He was silent. She could only assume he was lost for words, and was searching for an appropriate response. This shocked her more than anything, and suddenly she realised what she had just done, what had just happened. _By the Maiden._ She had to keep talking before he regained control, even though she hardly had it herself.

‘Please. I just wanted to show you that you could trust me. I want to help you as you’ve helped me.’ She kept her eyes on him, and slowly she watched his fingers relax. It seemed to take some effort. At last he spoke.

‘I wasn’t expecting a demonstration of… such advanced skills, for a young Lady.’

She brought her hands to cup her face, in horror. ‘My Lord, I’m so ashamed. I only tried because I thought it would make you happy.’ Her eyes watered, and he smiled.

He sat up and reached out for her hand, pulling her towards him until his closed legs pushed between hers. He pulled her even closer, and she had to use one hand to gather up her skirts as she shifted onto the chair, until she was straddling him. There were multiple layers of cloth between them, but she couldn’t stop imagining his cock pressing against her core, wet and bare.

Oblivious to – or wilfully ignoring - the extent of her desires, he brushed a hand up her neck. ‘I had imagined we would start,’ he whispered, pulling her head to his, ‘with something a bit lighter. Though I can’t promise I’ll be able to restrain myself from finishing your lessons, now you’ve started them.’

His lips brushed against hers, so softly, his facial hair tickling her skin. But he didn’t move, waiting for her, waiting for her to come to him. After a pause which seemed to drag on forever, she moved her lips against his, unable to stop herself pressing down into his crotch as well, but unable to get the friction she craved.

His hand strayed back into her hair, but he was not guiding her. He wanted her to come to him, to show her desperation for him. She would do it, her body wouldn’t let her do anything otherwise; but she would make him as desperate for her too, if she could.

Her tongue brushed his lips, a few times before he opened his mouth with hers. Their kisses became hot and messy, her panting breaths warming his skin whenever they parted for a moment, her hands gripping the top of the chair on either side of his head.

She was grinding against him now, winding her hips, pressing her breasts into his chest. He seemed stoic, but she could sense the effort it took him to stay that way, and she redoubled her efforts. She didn’t want to touch him with her hands; she would be wanton, impersonal, if that’s what he wanted. Instead she gripped the chair, harder and harder, using her body to rub against him. As their lips parted again she moaned, long and low in his ear, but did not return to kiss him again, instead dropping her head against his shoulder.

It took him a moment to realise why she was distracted - Sansa had found a point among the folds of her dresses and the firmness of his doublet that she could rub herself against, at last finding some satisfaction. She felt him smile against her neck, and he shuffled, taking away the dim pleasure building within her, the hand gripping her hip tightening to keep her still.

‘If kissing me is not enough, just ask me for what you want, sweetling.’

'Please my Lord - please.'


	19. Two Players

‘You’ll have to be more specific than that.’

She tried to move but his hand held her, biting into her side.

‘I want you, Petyr-’ she moaned low, her breath warm against his skin, as she fought to remain still.

‘You want me – how? You already have my attention sweetling, if that is what you mean.’

He was toying with her, but where she should have felt annoyed, she only felt a heady rush, rippling through her. She hesitated slightly before speaking.

‘I want you as a wife wants a husband, my Lord.’

He shook his head between her arms, planting a kiss on the inside of her elbow. ‘No; like a whore wants her customer.’

She wasn’t sure what he meant by that analogy, but it wasn’t quite accurate in any case. She wanted him for the means he gave her, her own pleasure, as part of the game they were playing, like a whore might – but almost as much, she just wanted him. Wanted to watch his face as pleasure overcame him. Wanted to see him weak, trembling beneath her, out of his own control. But then maybe whores wanted that sometimes too.

She nodded after a moment’s thought. ‘Like a girl might need a tutor.’ His hand moved from her waist, gathering the cloth around her thighs and sliding underneath, cold palms brushing against warm skin.

‘Mmm, that too,’ he sighed, as his fingers found the heat between her legs, burrowing to push lightly against her cunt. The large ring on his little finger rubbed against her clit as he explored her sex, and she bucked in pleasure. Sansa bit her lip, but did not kiss him.

‘I want to learn from you Lord Baelish,’ she sighed against his lips, ‘please…’

‘Oh you do?’ His fingers stroked at her core, tickling. ‘Lift your hips, little one, if you’re so keen to learn, and I will show you what to do.’

She did as she was told, shifting her weight to her knees, allowing his hand to cup her swollen lips and probe against her. His eyes didn’t move from her face, his stare part desiring, part analytical, but always bearing into her with insatiable curiosity. Her mouth opened silently as he began to slip his fingers between her folds, coating them in her wetness before sliding his middle finger inside her.

She gasped. In reality it meant nothing; she had done more with both men and maidens, she had felt Petyr’s lips against the very core of her. But face to face it was something different, to feel as he teased her, to know it was all her doing. She sighed his name against his ear and he slipped another finger inside her, his lip curling in a grin as her hands moved from the chair back to his shoulders, weaving around him until their chests were crushed together. She couldn’t hold her weight up any more so she pressed down onto his hand, winding her hips in an imitation of what she would do when he was buried inside her completely; he knew what it was too, and he let her ride him. He was whispering something under his breath, words of encouragement; what was he saying? ‘That’s it sweetling, wind your hips – yes, you have it. Slow—deliberate.’ He groaned again, and she realised that her movements were pushing the back of his hand against his own crotch – despite his best efforts, and his pretences, his body cried out for hers as well. She fought to hide a smile as she pushed hard against his hand, feeling his fingers crook inside her. ‘Yes,’ he whispered as she moaned, ‘you’re a natural. A _natural_...’

The words echoed in her ears, and she had never felt more assured of her own capability than she did now. She’d spent a lifetime feeling stupid. She knew now that she wasn’t, but she could make others so with minimal effort, and she was confident she could take this further if she wanted. Her hard nipples cried out to be touched, and her skin itched for the want of hands on it, and there was too much material between them. She extracted herself from his hold and stood up, feeling his fingers slip from her. Before he could protest she began to pull at the strings of her dress on her back.

It was an elaborate gown, worn to impress the Royces, but the tie came undone fairly easily. He watched her as she pulled the material from her shoulders, loosening the strings further as she tugged it down and over her waist, and stepped out of it until she was in just her chemise. Petyr began to lean forwards to grab her, believing her finished, but she took a step backwards. She cast him an uncertain look as she pulled the cloth over her head, leaving her bare to him, skin both feverish and covered in goosepimples.

Petyr seemed to have frozen, staring at her body in the flickering firelight. His eyes skimmed her breasts as he moved forward in the seat, but his gaze settled between her legs, where her red curls formed a triangle between her legs. Confident now she reached forward for his hand, bringing it to those curls that he seemed so fascinated by, which stoked his desire so. His rasping voice whispered her name – no, not her name, Alayne’s. Even now, he whispered his faux-daughter’s name, too entranced by his own pretense to forget it.

It hit her like a bolt, what to do, what to say, as she trembled under his exploring fingers, which roamed from her cunt to her hip bones, to her waist, to her round breasts, to her pebbled nipples.

‘Please,’ she whispered again, because today was the day of begging, pleading, for both of them; ‘please,’ as her head dropped back, lost, ‘please father, teach me what to do.’

The fingers rolling her nipple instantly tightened until it was almost painful, and she felt herself pulled back onto him, her naked skin scratched by the luxurious embroidery of his doublet. His hands did not reach for her though, but for his own buttons. Undoing just enough to grant him access to his trousers, he undid his ties, releasing himself at last. She had only a moment to admire him until he grabbed her hand, bringing it to him and wrapping it around his length, but only for a moment. His smooth hands gripped at her thighs, spreading them until she was in the right position to straddle him.

‘Guide it inside you,’ he ordered, his voice firm in his certainty and lust. ‘Convince him you want him, you cannot wait for him, as you’ve convinced me. Do it.’ She positioned herself over him, holding his cock still until she could steady herself. The flat of one of his palms ran up her stomach, between her breasts, around her throat and into her hair to twist it, pulling it. His other hand pulled her closer, until he could take a nipple into his mouth, biting at it gently, then soothing it with his tongue. ‘Now,’ he commanded against her skin.

Unable to wait any more she sank on to him, feeling the head of his cock pushing against her, parting her lips to fill her at last. She started to moan, louder than she had been. He shushed her, his left hand moving to cover her mouth as she sank lower, taking the rest of him until they were at last one.

 _This is it_ , Sansa thought, completely lost. She felt full, like the pleasure she had experienced in so many different ways was a cheap imitation of this moment. Littlefinger, inside her. It hurt a little bit, a slight burning as her body adjusted, but within a few moments her core had begun to pulse around him. She began to move again once it was comfortable, up, down, winding, moaning into his hand, following her instincts. After a while she felt that he was meeting her, thrusting up inside her, until the movement of them both became a more aggressive game, his pull on her hair bringing her down hard against him.

He watched her as she moved, grunting with each thrust, his palm on her face sweaty with her breath and his exertion. Sansa couldn’t say how long it took; every second felt like a minute as she felt him all of him, squeezing his cock with her insides, eager to comprehend every inch of him. His hand moved from her mouth to brush just above where they joined, and she bit hard on her lip. It took only a few movements of his fingers to have her insensible with pleasure. She could see his face, looking almost pained, but she knew what that meant, as their thrusting became uneven and almost out of sync, both of their bodies becoming selfish as they drew close to their peaks. She drew off him until only the head of his length was inside her, and leant forward to whisper in his ear -

‘Please – help – so close – Father-’ – he came with a moan, pulling on her hair so hard that she sank back on to him completely, crying out. As he moaned his fingers found her again, and the last few brushes brought her, whimpering, to her own climax.


	20. Masks

If she’d expected him to hold her in his arms, to whisper in her ear of how much he loved her, then she was disappointed. Shocked he’d been, as they’d panted from the exertion of what could only be described as a fuck. Considerate too, as he whispered of precautions they must take, things she already knew but acted relieved by all the same. Visibly surprised, distracted, faltering as he moved to stand and cover himself; all these things he was, if only for a moment.

But loving, he was not. Nor was his concern for her altogether unselfish, as he gathered the materials for the familiar moon tea. As he crouched over his fire to hang a kettle of water, she rose to stand in the middle of the room, still naked. Her thighs trembled, beginning to become sore from her movements. Long strands of hair clung to the sheen of sweat on her arms and breasts. She suddenly became aware of the stickiness between her thighs, and her instincts told her to cover herself; but she was unwilling to hide the evidence of his passion, the proof of his surrender.

He said nothing as he stared at the fire, waiting for the kettle to boil, and nor did she. It was a mutual silence, born of a shared recognition that there was nothing either could say that was big enough for this moment. Nonetheless, staring at his back was hardly comforting as she stood, exposed, waiting for him to acknowledge her.

She was not at all surprised by his lack of warmth, though; it was hard for Sansa, too, to know how to act, what to say. She hardly knew how she felt, now she’d finally had him, had seen his face as he came, felt the warmth of his seed inside her. Part of her felt almost resigned, like a piece of her was gone that would never come back. Her childhood was over, and her games of being a woman were games no more. But she had planned meticulously for this moment, had learnt what she had to learn; by the Seven, she had worked for this. Such feelings, and even the post-coital exhaustion that threatened to overcome her, did little to dampen her satisfaction. She had discovered a long time ago that she did not live in a land of charming princes and innocent maidens. Baelish may have saved her, but he was certainly not a hero. She had made a hero of herself.

Still she wondered at it, his ability to detach himself, or at least pretend to. He had fucked her, taken the maidenhead of the girl upon whom all his hopes relied. And yet there he was, gathering her abandoned clothes in his hands as the kettle steamed. It began to whistle, and he used the thick cloth of her skirts to grab its handle and pour some of the steaming water into the pot of herbs he had gathered. He moved towards the desk without a glance her way, dumping the pile of clothes on it as he swirled the pot in his other hand. He then strained it through some cloth into a small wine goblet, and handed it to her. It was the first time he’d looked at her since they’d pulled apart.

‘Drink this,’ he said, holding the goblet to her. It was hot in her hands, so she took small sips, the bitter taste familiar but harsh on her tongue. He was looking at her more openly now, examining her chest with an unabashed stare. She couldn’t tell if he was admiring her, or appraising her like one of the whores in his brothels. His hand moved to cup her left breast, brushing the underside with a thumb until she had finished the tea and put the goblet down. Finally he spoke again.

‘I hadn’t… planned this. But I failed to anticipate you. A convincing woman indeed.’ His hand fell as he turned to pull her chemise free from the pile of clothes, gathering it until he could drop it over her head. She raised her arms in the air, feeling half a child as he let it slide over her arms.

‘Though I suppose I should have known. That letter should have warned me. And you were so very eager that day weeks ago, with my tongue between your legs.’ He gripped her by the shoulders, forcing her to look up at him. ‘Tell me, sweetling,’ he asked, his voice gentle where his hands were not. ‘What could have made you so wanton? I know it couldn’t be the Royce girl – she’s known to be a bad influence, but I warned you about that very thing. A sensible lady like you wouldn’t ignore such advice.’

So he had seen that letter. She was too on edge already to be shocked, or even surprised. She’d expected it, and besides, it had done her no harm. But he had known, known what she and Myranda spoke of, known of the latter’s advice to her! And yet he had let her visit, let them share a bed, let them remain confidantes. Was it just an oversight? Did he underestimate her? Or was it all just one of Littlefinger’s games?

She hesitated for a moment, giving the new certainty about the letter time to settle in her mind, allowing new understandings to form around it, like water freezing around rock. When she spoke her voice was quiet, politely questioning.

‘Was any of it a coincidence? Why would you have her visit me, if you think her so wicked? You said so yourself.’

Littlefinger grinned, a smirk from the side of his mouth. ‘I suppose I should be glad that you came to me for relief,’ he said, dodging the question. ‘I imagine she advised you to find some boy who could be convinced to stay quiet. Or to toy with yourself whenever the urge struck.’

His hands slipped down and around her waist as he moved to stand behind her, his front to her back. ‘Tell me, what have you been dreaming of, my dove?’ His fingers slid down the material until they were between her legs, toying at her lips, still sensitive and swollen. ‘Handsome knights? Muscled blacksmiths, revealed to be lords, taking you in their arms?’

Her head fell back against him, but she refused to speak. His fingers flitted against her sex, teasing, a gesture of ownership. He knew what she dreamt of, who she dreamt of. He just wanted to make her feel foolish, unsure, until she begged him for relief. She knew it, and kept her tongue still. But still he whispered in her ear, which only made it worse; until she had to grip the edge of the desk to keep from moving. It was so soon after her last orgasm that she knew her next would follow soon, if only he would end his teasing. But she would not be the one to make him, not this time.

‘Unless the rumours I hear of her tastes are true…’ he was saying now, speaking of Myranda again. ‘I wouldn’t be surprised if she should try something with you...’ he whispered. ‘You do seem to attract ladies of that ilk. They know what you need, don’t they sweetling?’

She had to move, just had to; but instead of pushing herself into his fingers, she pushed herself against his crotch, reminding him of her new knowledge, that she knew how she inflamed him. His hand dropped from her, and he moved away from her abruptly. Instead he walked around the desk to face her, picking up her dress as he went. When she looked up at him, she saw that he was once again a blank slate, his expression giving nothing away beyond a wry smile. His mask had returned, but it was too late now - she had seen beneath it.

He looked her over, admiring her thoroughly dishevelled appearance. ‘You are so like your mother. And like your Aunt now too, I suppose, though I can assure you it is a less complementary comparison.’ Sansa shivered internally at the implication, pushing it to the corner of her mind where information she didn’t want resided. Her expression remained unchanged as she watched his eyes skim over her body again.  He was trying to reassert his dominance, she supposed. But still, did he mean what he said to compliment her? He had loved her mother. It was the source of her own power over him, at least for a while... but no, maybe it was both. Only Littlefinger would express his affection in a way that simultaneously sought to remind her of her place.

‘Now that you are no longer a maiden, we shall have to turn it to our advantage. Come, cover yourself.’ He passed her the dress and let her slip into it. She pulled the sleeves onto her arms and turned to let Petyr do the laces. He pulled them tight, then combed through her hair with his fingers, until it was no longer as tangled and messy. He then went to undo the lock on the door, pulling it wide, seemingly unconcerned if there was anyone nearby. When he finally spoke it was loud, and carefree.

‘Return to your rooms, daughter. I will let you know when we will practice again. We’ll practice until you are perfect.’


	21. A Mummer's Show

Lemon cakes. They’d arrived with breakfast this morning, sat there on the tray, 2 pretty little things on a copper plate. Drizzled in lemon curd too, by the look of them. Sansa had been staring blankly at them for the last half an hour, but her mind was in another place. Something had been troubling her, but the cakes certainly gave a pleasant focus for her eyes while her brain worked; trying to answer a question which wouldn’t leave her alone.

__________________

Yesterday she had been called to Petyr’s chambers again. It had been a week since it had finally happened, since she had forced his hand. She had begun to see that night as a marker, not just of the end of her maidenhood, but of the start of her own game. No longer was she a tool to be used by others – now, she moved the pieces, across a board only she could see. Nonetheless, for the past week she had been effectively relegated to her rooms, to playing with Robin, to petty tasks; and the mundaneness of reality had begun to resurface. After her recent glimpses of bigger and better things, of intrigue and power, she found herself eager at the thought of seeing Petyr again – to control every word she said, her every expression, to play the game between the two of them.

She came to his room in the evening as he had requested. There was no guard at the end of his corridor tonight, and the silence felt stifling as she approached his solar. She slipped inside without knocking, closing the door quietly behind her, despite the fact that there was no one but them to hear.

He was sat at his work, quill in hand as he glanced up at her. Before he even spoke he put away his ink and papers, closing them in a drawer which he locked with a small key from his pocket.

‘Come here Alayne,’ he said as he stood, moving to lean on the front of his desk. No formalities, no questions. Just orders, orders to a false name.

She walked towards him, silent still, until their bodies were almost touching, each person’s breath warming the skin of the other. There was no need for pretence now, though he still seemed to like the words and names of their little charade. _You must always be Alayne_ , he had said, and he made no exceptions – except when pleasure overcame him, and he called her true name in earnest. She would hear it again soon, Sansa told herself. She would make sure of it.

His hands slid down her waist and settled on her hips, gathering up the cloth he found there before he spoke again.

‘I promised you practice and you will have it, of a sort. Do you want that, sweetling?’

‘Yes Lord Baelish.’

‘Petyr-’

‘Petyr.’

‘Good. Take off your dress.’

She had worn a simple shift style robe, easy to remove herself. Maybe in the future she would wear something more difficult, a dress that would slow him down as he fiddled with the laces, something that would match his own ostentation. But something told her that for now, he liked to see her plain, an object of his own.

She removed the robe by unbuttoning a few fastenings on the shoulder and waist, until she stood in her smallthings. He told her to take those off too, and she did, until she was once more naked before him. Her skin pimpled, despite the ever-roaring fire.

He turned abruptly to the desk, gesturing to it with one hand. ‘On there,’ he said. Sansa was confused for a moment, before climbing as elegantly as she could onto the smooth wooden surface. It was cold against her thighs as she began to lay back. He _would_ want to take me on here, she began to think, a symbol of his power and ingenuity-

But his hand slipped behind her back, stopping her from laying down.

‘Not like that. I want you to sit, as you were atop of me.’

Again she was bewildered for a moment, but soon gathered her wits and moved to a straddling position. ‘Imagine there’s a man beneath you,’ Littlefinger ordered, as his hands gripped at her thighs and pulled them apart, making her sink lower towards the desk. ‘Or like a man would sit a horse, if the Lady prefers. There, like that. Excellent.’

He stepped back, and Sansa had never felt more exposed in every way. She supposed that was part of his intention, though she had no idea of the rest of it.

‘You are a very beautiful girl, Alayne,’ Littlefinger sighed. His gaze was all over her again, crawling across her skin with such intent that she could almost feel it. She watched his face as his eyes came back to meet hers, and she thought she could recognise lust in them, though he sought to hide it.

‘It is very important, Alayne, that your future husband believe that you desire him. That he believes that you are faithful and loyal to him, that you cannot wait to have his seed inside you. Do you understand?’

She wasn’t sure to which future husband he referred, but she did not want to voice the question. Her silence remained, though she nodded her recognition.

‘You must convince him that you crave no man but him, whether it is true or not.’ He approached her again, brushing his fingers lightly down her arm, a laughing smile on his face. ‘Imagine someone you do desire, if you must.’ He moved away again. ‘Now, show me that you can pretend.’

What did he want of her? She had to speak at last. ‘What do you mean? What is that you want me to do?’

He smiled again, like a father delighting in his child’s naiveté. ‘Remember how you moaned and sighed my name. Do it again, without me there.’ She remained still, and he sighed. ‘Remember how you moved. Wind your hips. There.’

She was moving, though it was harder with no friction against her, no one to steady her. Baelish had pulled up a chair, and was now sitting to watch her.

‘Think about how you felt. How it felt to have me inside you, filling you.’

She sighed, involuntarily, and suddenly she saw what it was he wanted. Her hands tightened into fists as she remembered, not the sex, but the morning he had kissed between her legs, licked at her until she came. She ground against air, her eyelids fluttering shut, but she could hear him moving forward in his seat.

‘Open your eyes,’ he ordered, after a moment. ‘Look at him. Nowhere else but him.’

She obeyed, and saw that he was staring at her intently again, appraising. She experimented with letting another moan leave her lips, a make-believe moan.

‘Not very convincing. You can do better.’

She changed her position slightly, until she could be a bit more active in her movements. He wanted to see proof that she could draw him in with a few choice sounds and looks - a useful lesson, all things considered.

She started to move faster, quiet moans filling the room as she stared into his eyes. She began to feel more aroused by the moment, the performance taking on a pleasure of its own as she picked up the pace. A strangled groan now, imagining his wet and parted lips pressed against her breast, caressing her hardened nipples with his tongue.

‘So close,’ she whispered, and he nodded in approval. She took it as encouragement to continue. ‘Yes, please, now, more…’ she began to moan, growing more confident.

Littlefinger stood up, approaching her again as she writhed and moaned. He took one of her hands in his, leading it between her legs. He cupped her fingers in his palm, pushing them against her wet lips, guiding her. The sensation was overwhelming now, and her breath hitched, her mouth wide but silent.

‘Keep it believable,’ he whispered, his voice like gravel. ‘You’re a lady, overwhelmed by desire.’ His hand pushed hers against her sex, finding contact with that spot that brought her so much joy. She bucked slightly, whimpering. ‘Not a whore in a brothel, faking it. You’re in love. You want to please him.’

She came hard and fast, her eyes never leaving his, quiet gasps overwhelming her until she fell against him, exhausted.

__________________

Staring at the lemon cakes now, she knew they were a reward for a good performance. But she continued to wonder, asking herself the question she was unable to answer: how much of this was her game, and how much of it was Littlefinger’s? Was she in charge, or was she just doing exactly what he wanted? She had performed for him, given him what he wanted. Proven that she could be his tool.

But it must have been something more. It must have had a purpose for him. She knew that their relationship was the kind where everything had meaning, some hidden depths. He had not wanted to touch her, just to see her – see her do what? Re-enact their pleasure? Why? She could feel the knot of the problem untangling behind her eyes… why did he do it?

To see it again. To be able to sit back, the master of the chessboard, and see her submit to him again. To watch her do whatever he asked, to be the wanton woman desperate for his touch, without his own lust to blur the memory. She almost laughed. Here they were, both thinking they were the players and the other the piece.

She knew now that she could move him. But if she were ever to match the scale of his games, she would need to know more, more about what was going on beyond these walls; where his plans fit into the maelstrom. She had begun to see that the only way to make sense of the chaos was to control it. She would play her part in Littlefinger’s game, perform as he wished her to; at least on the surface. But from now on, he would have to repay the favour.


	22. Easy Questions

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A short and sweet chapter today (I should really be revising, stop me please!)

His hand was buried between her legs, her skirts hitched up around her hips as she perched on the end of her bed. It had yet to become normal, this intimacy between them, and the thrill still shot through her when he looked at her in that way – that way that was both all about her, and yet distant, as if he was thinking about another place, another time. It reminded her that men lost a part of themselves when they wanted a woman, even Lord Baelish. A rational part of their mind flitted away, whether they knew it or not.

Petyr was telling her what he was going to be doing that day, as his fingers teased at her inner thighs. She had taken to asking; and if she pitched it right, appealed to his pride, he would tell her. He never really told her what was going on beyond the Vale though, except in the vaguest terms. His plans today were fairly undramatic, mostly administrative meetings, or hearings from villagers with difficult problems. Nothing that she would be interested in, and he knew it.

His fingers tickled at where her smallthings crossed her thigh, creeping slowly beneath the material and her skin. She cleared her throat quietly, placing a stalling hand on his wrist.

‘Should I not be saving myself, Lord Baelish?’

‘Petyr,’ he chided. ‘And I thought you were,’ he joked, his weight shifting beside her. ‘In so many ways.’

‘But, will Harold not know I’ve been with a man, if we carry on this way? He will not think I’ve lain with Sweetrobin, surely.’

‘Not if you blush prettily, gasp as he takes you, then no he won’t. And if he wants a virgin, which I doubt, well he’s hardly one to judge.’ His fingertips brushed against the cloth between her legs with renewed urgency. ‘Besides, he’ll be too busy admiring your skill, whether natural or learned.’

Despite his compelling argument, Sansa pulled away ever so slightly.

‘But… then I should be pleasing you.’

He stilled for a moment. ‘Indeed?’

‘These lessons are so I can please my husband, are they not?’

He hesitated for a second, something that would have been barely noticeable to Sansa if she hadn’t been paying attention.

‘Of course, sweetling,' he said with a smile. 'If you insist, who am I to stop you?’

She turned to her side, his hand withdrawing from her skirts as she went to pull apart the bottom of his doublet. Whenever she tried to go further, to see him fully, he would pull away, or distract her with some touch or manoeuvre that would distract her completely. She knew she would have to persevere at some point, but not today.

As she pulled at the strings of his trousers, he moved to guide her, but she waved his hand away with a stubborn smile.

‘Let me do it. You won’t be there to guide me in my marriage bed, will you?’

He leant back, allowing her to pull his hardening length from the cloth. She took the time to admire him fully this time, in the dim early morning light that filled her chamber. It was not as long as Bosley’s had been, but thicker, and her limited experience told her that that would probably be better for her – she shook her head in a tiny movement. _Concentrate, Sansa!_

Slowly she began to trail her fingers, light as feather, up the underside of his cock, noting his controlled breathing as she did so, the slow rise and fall of his narrow chest. She moved, cupping him in her palm as her fingers moved further down.

She fell into a rhythm, the silence only interrupted by a few assuring comments from Petyr. Watching her hand work, she took the opportunity for a few whispered questions.

‘Lor- Petyr. I’ve been wondering something…’ his face didn’t express any recognition of her words, but she continued regardless. ‘How long will we stay here?’ She was careful to use ‘we’ – she didn’t want to appear too independent, not yet.

‘Here?’ His face was still a mask of control, though his eyes were tightly closed in his pleasure.

‘I mean, when will we be able to leave the Vale? How long before I can marry Harold?’

‘My sweet Sansa, is it not enough to know that your moment will come?’ He gasped as she adjusted her arm, gripping him slightly tighter. ‘If all my plans go well, I will give you your revenge.’ His voice was gravelly, faltering as she varied her movements. ‘Until then, rest easy, where you are safe…’ His voice fell off into a low groan.

Sansa thought about it for a moment. She was happy here - well as happy as she had been in a long time. The misery of Kings Landing could not reach her in this refuge, forever coated in ice and snow, like her home had been. It was a fortress, this place. She had begun to understand why her Aunt had felt untouchable, immune to danger. But with that feeling of security, came the urge to use it, to swipe at her enemies from the safety of these walls.

Winterfell was a burning ruin now. Destroyed, or so she had been told. Her family was dead, or lost to her. She had nothing to take back, nothing to reclaim. Nothing except her pride. But that, she could only take back herself.

‘I’m grateful to you, that you’d give me revenge – give me back what was mine.’ He was dropping back, his hands fisting in the sheets. She moved forwards to place a slightly awkward kiss on his neck. ‘But I want to be there to take it. With you. Now.’

He came with a groan, shuddering as a sticky wetness spread over Sansa’s hand. They were both panting lightly, and took a second to catch their breath. She withdrew her hand slowly, careful not to touch her dress, as he moved towards her washroom. He returned a minute or so later, immaculate as ever. With a wet cloth he wiped her hand clean, caressing her fingers with it for a moment or two before bundling it into her washing basket. He righted himself before standing to leave, turning to her at the door with a curious expression.

‘Come to my chambers, tonight. Don’t let anyone see you.’


	23. Remembrance

She tried to think of other things for the rest of the day, but it wasn’t that easy in a castle relatively free of distraction. The only thing she could think of was a job she’d been putting off for a several weeks now, a rather unpleasant one at first glance. But it would serve to occupy her for a few hours, and with the memories of Petyr’s lingering touches fresh in her mind, finding any kind of distraction at all was essential.

Petyr had given her Lady Lysa’s clothes shortly after her death, but Sansa had begun to find them almost suffocating to wear, drenched with morbidity. She had felt like she was stealing, even if it was from a ghost. She’d considered using the material for other things, but in lieu of making a decision, had asked the servants to store them in chests and move them to a disused chamber, out of sight. However, now that some time has passed, pragmatism had won out again, and she wondered why she’s ever been so sensitive. If she made herself think rationally, a dress really meant nothing at all.

By the time she reached the room, deep in the foundations of the Maiden’s Tower, she’d quite talked herself out of any reservations. Adjusting Lysa’s dresses into some new clothes would take hardly any time, and it was much better than letting them lie in a box, unused. Pulling the heavy oak door open, the cold air of the room rolled into her like a wave of water, along with a musky smell that made her nose wrinkle. The ceiling was so low that she almost had to duck her head; the bare stone walls, uncovered with tapestries or paintings, seemed to close her in. For a moment she wondered if it had once been a dungeon, before she remembered that the Eyrie had its own unique prisons.

Nonetheless, there was something oddly freeing about being in that room. It felt secure, safe. She wouldn’t have to worry about prying eyes down here, as she did in the vast open halls upstairs, where she was forever on her guard.

Once she’d closed the door behind her, she spotted the three large wooden chests that held her quarry, and couldn’t suppress a smile. It had been a long time since she’d had a new dress – even if it was technically old - and she was looking forward to concentrating fully on a simple, harmless task. It reminded her of when cloth sellers would come to Winterfell, offering their reels of brightly coloured material. Her mother would always pick the dullest ones, against Sansa’s protests, and then they would spend days fashioning them into new handkerchiefs, or into small pillows, and dresses when they had enough cloth.

The thought of her mother unsettled Sansa, and she instead focused on opening the three boxes. Twenty minutes later almost all the dresses were spread out on the floor, pulled from the chests and unwrapped from their waxed paper packing. They were many shades of grey, blue and white. Hardly exciting, but suited to the muted style of the Vale, and they would probably look passably nice with her dark hair and pale skin. But despite the fairly uninteresting colour pallet, there was something fussy about a lot of the dresses, like the unnecessary flourishes on the collars and sleeves, which strongly evoked memories of her aunt. Of Lysa, fussing over her clothes, fussing over her son, fussing over Petyr – screaming his name in their marriage bed, screaming his name as she fell-

Sansa shook her head again. This is why she had put the dresses away. She had already cried enough for the past, and it achieved nothing. Sitting back on her heels, she instead took a moment to have a more thorough look at the rest of the room. It was full of old chests and boxes, untouched for years, all stacked neatly on top of each other. Some were held shut with rusty padlocks; others had evidently been rummaged through at some point more recently, but had gathered dust since. Dropping the cloth currently in her hands, she rose to have a closer look. What was in these boxes, she wondered? Insignificant objects that nobody cared about? She supposed they must be, or they wouldn’t be here. But if they were insignificant, why keep them at all? Whatever they were, they must have mattered to somebody.

She brushed the closest box with her fingers, feeling the dust gather beneath them, little tracks appearing. If she looked closely, she could just about make out little Arryn falcons carved into the wood, obscured by the grime that had gathered over the years. She peered around her, noticing how they were on nearly every box; or engraved on the metal locks, on the few boxes that had been secured.

Her curiosity got the better of her. She lifted the nearest unlocked crate and moved it to the floor, carefully prising the lid loose. One by one she began to look through each box, pulling out every item with tender care, unwrapping them, looking them over, before replacing them again. Most were fairly uninspiring trinkets – gifts, perhaps, that had been left unused – goblets, old-fashioned broaches. Once she had seen everything, she would pull the box to one side. After a short while she had inadvertently created a little wall between her and the door, and had reached the last few chests and boxes.

She pulled the next one towards her without really looking, but when she glanced down she felt her heart stall. This one was different. There were no House Arryn insignias, none of the little moons and falcons which marked many of the others. She brushed her fingers over what was there instead – the little Tully fish, carved deep into the thick oak lid so that it seemed to rise from the wood, reaching out to her. When the moment had passed, Sansa frantically checked for a lock, breathing a sigh of relief when she found it missing.

The second she opened it she knew it was her mother’s. Somehow the smell remained, the smell of her, the smell of home and comfort. Reverently she pulled out the first wrapped package, feeling that it was something soft within. She could see her hands shaking as she pulled it towards her. She was hesitant to even unwrap it, as she held it to her face and took a deep breath inwards. Did it really smell like her, or was she imagining it? Did she just want to believe it?

She pulled the box backwards, and shuffled across the floor to lean against the chests behind her, laying the first package on her lap. Once she’d worked up the courage she began to pull the cloth free, delighted as what she saw matched her hopes – it was a dress, she was sure of it! High collared and grey, as she remembered her mother used to like. The next was similar, and the one after that, well-worn, and marked upon close inspection with her mother’s neat stitching. Her mother had never been wasteful, not even in her childhood in Riverrun. These boxes must have been brought from there with Lysa’s belongings by accident, many moons ago. She could picture Lysa discovering them among her things, and demanding they were hidden, in the deepest darkest room of the Eyrie.

But as Sansa got deeper into the box the gowns and cloaks started to vary, drifting further from the hazy image of her mother she thought she remembered. She tried to think back – had she ever seen her wearing dresses like these, fitted and elegant? As hard as she tried, the only memory that surfaced was of the day Sansa had left for Kings Landing. Whatever muted attire her mother had been wearing was lost to her now - unlike the look that had been on her face, as Sansa had faded into the distance. That face had haunted Sansa’s dreams; especially in those days in Kings Landing, after she’d been told that she was now alone in this world.

She pulled out the last dress, and clutched it to her chest. She could see flashes of blue and red, the Tully colours, distinctively arranged as weaved, twisted strips of cloth down the centre of the bodice, in an otherwise grey gown. After a few moments she rewrapped it, putting it aside as she returned the other boxes to their places, leaving some to form the makeshift wall she had created. She would return here, tomorrow. But for now, she picked up the dress, and her sewing kit, and headed towards the door. She would not forget. She was the only one left; her mother must live on, and it would have to be through her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Phew, sorry for the wait guys! This one was hard to finish. Thanks for all your lovely comments - normal service should resume from here on in.


	24. Exposure

Petyr Baelish reclined into his chair, weaving his fingers together behind his neck as he let his eyes flutter shut. The day’s work had been mundane, as ever, but it had allowed his mind to wander – though sometimes, to places that weren't entirely comfortable.

He had said before there were two types of people: the players and the pieces. But he had increasingly come to see that among the players, there was more variety than he had previously thought. Some, like dear Queen Cersei, he thought of as plate spinners, as in a travelling show. Even when they thought they knew which plate wobbled, and which must be left alone, they were too busy running from one to the other to see the bigger picture, to act where they must. Others saw themselves as spiders, as he did. They sat in the centre of the web, barely flexing their muscles, waiting for each minor gesture to bring their prey closer and closer.

But there could only be one spider at the centre of the web, in the end. And though Varys may have the informal title, it was but a name. And it didn't matter much, whether that spider wore a crown, or had a Ser at the front of its name. Nor did it have to be a fat, plump spider, or one that was terrifying or beautiful to behold. It just had to sit, and know where to lay its string, here and there, and its prey would trap itself.

Of course, he had come to expect the occasional little rebellion, such as they were. To lesser men - and lesser ladies - the matters of ambition and day to day living overlapped very little. They didn't see how a discarded smile, an angry word, could make much difference in the long run. Or worse, they overplayed their hand, and made too much of trivial gestures, thinking they'd played the game successfully. These men had no patience, no finesse, but blundered through life making error after error, not noticing until it was too late. Ultimately there were few men of his own ilk; men who saw how the strings of the web came together, how one could be plucked over here with the lightest touch, and shake the very roots of the Kingdom over there.

Nonetheless, events occurred now and then which were to Petyr almost unexpected - but only almost. Could he have foreseen pushing Lysa through the Moondoor? Perhaps he had envisioned it once or twice, particularly as she'd screamed so loud in bed together that she'd nearly burst his eardrums, a desperate keen that made his stomach churn with disgust. And he'd known that his plans for Sweetrobin were not likely to see fruition while his mother lingered.

So when he'd seen her there, over the open door, an opportunity too good to miss, he had had to accelerate his plans faster than anticipated. And when sweet, naive, innocent little Sansa, had started to stare unknowingly at him, to gaze at his mouth for a few moments too long, he had known that a devotion to him was forming within her- as he had wanted it to - but even faster than expected. And whenever she called him father without a moment's hesitation, he became more assured that he was everything to her, and that the memory of anything good that came before he saved her was fading away.

But did he expect her to discover herself so quickly, her body, and its demands? Perhaps liberation from that dank hole Winterfell, and from Kings Landing (where she must have known true privacy didn't exist) was all that was needed to enlighten her. In any case, the memory of her slender hand around his cock was one he had yet to adjust to fully. The thought of her dazed expression. Telling her to playact their fucking, because making it seem like make-believe, like practise for the future, was better than getting lost in the glory of her supple, untouched body writhing on top of his.

Untouched. But there was a word that haunted him now. He had almost believed her story about the Kings Guard - if it would be true of anybody, it would be true of them - but he had heard no tell of such things, and he thought he had heard of everything they did to Sansa. And, though he almost didn't want to think it, her hand on his hard length had seemed to show a practised skill.

Petyr was not one to shame others for taking pleasure in the flesh. He was well known for catering to all tastes in his brothels; he had seen it all, and knew the worst of human perversions. Personally, the only reason he cared about whether things were proper or not was to determine how far his client was in his debt. He had little interest in the ideological ramifications of bad behaviour on the soul. But others did, and that could not be denied. And although he had outgrown his chivalrous views long ago, remnants of them resurfaced at the thought of his adopted child disobeying him so brashly. He felt nothing as childish as disappointment, just the annoyance of uncertainty, of the potential for well-laid plans to go awry.

Nonetheless, Petyr found himself unable to belief that, having lost the restraint of nobility she had carried for so long, Sansa would simply give in to the inevitability of whoring and fucking, as she’d seen around her every day in Kings Landing. Petyr didn’t like to make guesses, but if he forced himself to now, he would lean towards believing in her innocence. For as much as he doubted she would be as eager and somewhat skilled in pleasing him by instinct alone, he doubted even more that there was anybody in this castle who would dare take her completely. Not the daughter of the Lord, even a bastard one. He had heard her sigh of pain when he entered her, had revelled in it, in the sheen of sweat on her brow, and the tight heat of her cunt. He had no reason to believe someone had taken her before (though he knew men could be fooled, and some whores sold their virginities many times over).

And even if Harold Hardyng was not among those who cared who was a virgin or who was not, which he doubted very much that Sansa had known, to be fucking around would have been a foolish move, one which risked throwing all his plans down the drain. But Sansa’s questions this morning had confirmed to him that she sought now to run, rather than walk down the path he laid before her, that she harboured ambitions of her own beyond the safe haven he had created for her. Like a spinning plate, she has begun to waver out of control.

A knock on the door disturbed his wandering thoughts, and he glanced at the candle burning on the table. It had nearly burnt down to its base, meaning it was almost midnight. He pulled his silk nightgown tighter around him and moved towards the door, glancing through the narrow gap as he opened it. It was her, near invisible in the dark of the corridor, illuminated only by the dim light of the candle she carried with her. Without a word he opened the door enough to let her in, and turned to return to the fireplace.

She entered the room silently, as ever. The girl had learnt to try and draw as little attention to herself as possible, though as little as possible for her was still a large amount by most people’s standards. Something about her drew the eye. Something to do with a natural grace, Petyr mused. It was intrinsic to her, and she was unable to mask it. 

When she turned to face him, something about her triggered a slight jolt of recognition, though he couldn't quite put his finger on what. He stepped forward to brush her upper arm, recognising as he did so a feeling of jealous, possessive affection towards her. It was distantly familiar, like something he’d felt towards someone else a long time ago. But it was her who stood before him now, both entirely his, and painfully independent. She was not quite Sansa Stark - but she was not quite Alayne Stone, either. She was some unknown quantity in between, something he wanted to take and make his own. 

Part of her darkened hair was pulled up, the rest tumbling past her collar bones. He liked it like that. He lifted the ebony waves back over her shoulders, letting his hands slide over them and down her back. He wanted to take her slowly tonight, slowly and sweetly in the darkness – but right now, he struggled against his impatience to have her, thrown against the wall this instant. They hadn’t spoken yet, but there was little need anyway. His thumbs traced around to her front, trailing under her breasts, until his fingers could tangle in the colourful ties of her bodice. Blue and red, the Tully colours. Tonight there was none of the wolf in her, none of that hardness. She bent to his will like a reed in the river.

As he weaved his fingers through the coloured ties, he realised he'd dreamt of doing this before, pulling them loose. He thought he knew what it was that he had recognised earlier, but as he pulled the now undone dress down until it pooled round her ankles, he decided he didn't care how, or why she wore it. All he cared about was seeing the body that lay beneath it again, feeling that smooth, untouched skin (yes, it was untouched, she was a naïve innocent girl, how foolish to think otherwise…), and having her tremble under his hands.

The dim light was an unnecessary flattery for her, her pale skin shining in the pooled glow of the candle. In the recesses of his mind he told himself that this was a strategic move – this girl was disposable. He would fuck her like a gallant knight because it was a part of the game. But as he took her hand and led her to his large, poster bed, and lay her down beneath the furs and blankets, the more immediate part told him it was what she deserved – this care, this attention. 

As he slipped beneath the blankets too, her hands reached for him. He dropped his mouth to her breasts, brushing a hardened nipple with his tongue as his hand caressed the other, and her quiet moan sent a wave through him, right to his crotch, where his cock hardened in response. She tried to pull apart his robe as he involuntarily pressed against her, to slide her slim hands underneath, but he pulled away just enough to stop her explorations going too far. But as he slid one hand down beneath her legs, kissing her as she pulled him closer, he began to lose the will to protest.

They were lost in a tangle of cloth and skin and blankets, tasting each other, hot breaths warm against each other’s faces as their bodies moved together. As they rolled, Sansa on top of him, Petyr’s robe fell open, and he found himself too lost to care or notice, as he slid inside the wet heat of her. If he had wanted to cover the unsightly scar that marred him neck to groin, the reminder of his external weakness all those years ago, then it was too late; as she slid down to press her chest against his. It was an awkward position, perhaps, and he knew he should hide the scar from her, maintain his show of strength - but once he’d wrapped his arms around her, he found he was simply unable to care.


	25. Safety

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I haven't updated since August? What?! Where does the time go, holy mackerel. Well here's the latest update, hope you enjoy...

At last, Sansa could feel him, all of him, even if she couldn’t see most of him, and even if he still wore his robe. She could feel the raised edges on his stomach, and distantly recalled the story of his ill-fated duel with her uncle, the image flickering in the back of her preoccupied mind. It was a welcome reminder of why she was here, sighing into his ear – this was a man who has haunted her life since before it began. She was here to haunt him back.

But oh, oh, when he kissed her neck, it would be so easy to forget, when the ember that had been burning low down in her stomach erupted into a twisting, wrenching need. As much as his touch, she loved this pleasant hazy cloud in her mind, which made her other worries disappear. Indeed the voices in the back of her head receded into insignificance, as Petyr’s wandering fingers wrapped around the back of her upper thigh, teasing her legs further apart. His other hand cupped her head, pulling it into his chest as he kissed her forehead, almost chastely. But she could feel his hardness, too, pressed against her stomach, hot and pulsing lightly against her skin.

Sansa sat up slightly to peel Petyr’s gown from his shoulders, noting his slight hesitation before he slid his arms from the sleeves. It fell back on the bed, still beneath them as he guided himself between her legs. It was quicker, less jarring than before, feeling him enter her, rolling them over so he could sink deeper inside, his long low groan filling the air between them. Sansa rolled her hips upwards, curling her arms beneath his and over his shoulder blades, as his fingers trailed loosely down the sides of her arms.

It was slower than before, their pleasure drawn out and deliberate. Every touch was teasing, chosen to drag out this winding, growing feeling – to fill their fingers and toes and entire bodies with need and desire, until they could take no more. When Petyr’s self-control faltered, Sansa would soften her touch. When Sansa’s toes began to curl, Petyr would withdraw his hand from between them, slipping from her body. Many times they lay together hardly touching, almost silent as they lightly stroked each other’s skin, until the urgency faded and she could guide him inside her again. Then he would bury himself within her, not a sliver of air between their bodies as their hips moved together.

Eventually, she couldn’t help the begging whine that escaped her as his hand slipped between them with renewed urgency, both of them desperate to be relieved from their mutual torture. Yet nor could she help her little performance, her exaggeration as she moaned his name as if it was blasphemy – ‘Petyr!…’. He liked her breathy, helpless voice - she already knew that much. And when he came, it was with a shuddering groan that sounded just as helpless.  


\--------

Afterwards they lay entangled in each other’s arms for as long as they dared, which wasn’t much time at all. It was Baelish who moved first, slipping from the bed and pulling on his crumpled nightgown in one movement. Sansa watched as he fetched a new candle to replace the one which had burnt down, lighting it from the embers of the dying fire.

‘You should go,’ he said, after a long silence. There was an awkwardness between them, though it wasn’t entirely uncomfortable. They both knew that tonight had been different, that things had changed in some uncertain, unknown way. Sansa knew that Baelish would soon be calculating the effects of this evening, his next step; and she could only hope that some emotion, some feeling had crept into his head tonight. Some distant echo, however weak, of the warm attachment she couldn’t help but feel. She had worn that dress tonight – the dress in a pile on the floor – because she had hoped it would inspire some feeling in Petyr, some memory of the love he’d had for her mother. She thought it would tie him even closer to her, somehow. But she hadn’t expected this bond she could feel between them now. She wasn’t sure if it was real, if it would last outside this moment, or if she even wanted to feel it. But something was there.

Sansa pulled back the sheet, exposing her naked body in its entirety, pausing to feign a look at a mark on her thigh. She could feel his eyes on her as she moved one leg to the edge of the bed. Her swollen sex was sticky with Petyr’s seed, and she saw his gaze move there as she spread her legs apart, dropping one foot to the floor before the other. Once she’d stood she was only inches away from him, but she let her own eyes drop demurely to his chest.  

His robe was still slightly open, and she moved one hand there hesitantly, pressing lightly against the white scarred flesh that was just exposed. She could feel him trying not to move, like a coiled spring, though his breaths were shallow. She didn’t know exactly why she was doing this, stroking the scar with such fascination. Was it part of a pretence at being a love-struck girl, or was it the way his marked skin caught the flickering light, the way his chest rose up into her touch? Tonight had been strange that way – half planned, half not.

Was she attracted to this man? She hadn’t been, at first. Not in the way she had swooned over those handsome, gallant knights at court. But those men, those princes and Lords, had let her down. They had shattered her illusions with their cruelty, or at least abandoned her when she needed them most. Perhaps there was no such thing as gallantry. Perhaps the most you could hope for was someone who cared for you, and when they were cruel (as everyone is), then it would be to protect you. Her father had never been cruel. But her father, her mother, her brothers and sister, the children of a happy home, they were all dead. Survival was all that was left.

And here was a man who she knew could be cruel, could survive; but she was also sure that he was capable of caring for someone, even if it was a possessive, jealous kind of affection. The scar beneath her fingers told her that. And even though she knew the game she played was dangerous, each time he looked at her naked body with such fascination, she felt a little safer. And that feeling could almost overwhelm her. Each kiss they shared was a moment of relief, from the fear that dragged her down.

Baelish pulled her hand from his chest after a few moments, moving to pick up the clothes on the floor. Sansa pulled on her smallthings first, while he gathered her dress in his arms. He paused with it for a second before dropping it over her head, ensuring it was smooth.

‘You have to get back,’ he whispered, ‘before the servants rise. Go.’ They made eye contact, stared, but neither could bring themselves to a kiss. Neither of them had the right words, and both of them knew it, so Sansa left his chamber without another one.


	26. Better Together

The wind was battering the frozen rock of the Eyrie with renewed vigour, as if concerned that its tenants were feeling too comfortable. It sounded like endless screams, relentless howls in the darkness of the winter air. The thin glass windows did little to resist the chill outside, and the cold seeped into Sansa’s skin as she sat in the reception room. It made her feel empty, like a glass bottle. She stared, unseeing, curling her numb fingers up into her sleeves, until a mention of her title called her back to reality.

‘My Lady, please, perhaps you can understand-’ begged a thin and reedy voice.                     

On the platform slightly ahead of her, Petyr abruptly stood up from his chair – consciously not a throne – and motioned for the guard by the door. The elderly man on his knees before them flinched, aware that his time with the Lord Protector of the Vale was swiftly coming to an end.

‘You have braved a long and dangerous journey to get here, and I commend you for it,’ said Petyr. To a layman he may have sounded sincere, but Sansa knew better. ‘However my decision is final, and appealing to my daughter will not change it. You will have to find another resolution to your problem. May I suggest an apology and a large gift?’

‘But I have nothing to give, my Lord…’

‘A young unmarried daughter, you said. A very valuable and desired commodity in a small fishing town, I should imagine, who should fetch a fair bride’s price.’

At a nod from Baelish, a guard came forward to pick the man from the ground, guiding him towards the door. His eyes flitted back and forth from Sansa to Petyr, desperate.

‘But my Lord, my daughter is too young, too sweet – I need her with me still-’

‘Every bird must eventually fly the nest. Hope she has many children, who may care for you in your dotage.’ The man was half-dragged away, mouthing silent protests, until the doors closed with a bang behind him, leaving only silence.

Sansa stared at Petyr keenly, while his back remained to her. To him, that peasant’s nameless daughter was simply a commodity to be bought and sold. Her life would be given away for gold and politics, just as Sansa’s would be. For the first time, Sansa thought what it was to be a woman in this world, and resented it. She resented this narrow tightrope she walked; on the one side a great open freedom, and on the other, the bars of a gilded cage.  Which way would she fall? And on which side was Petyr, reaching out to her?

Because despite everything she knew about him, Littlefinger’s public persona had surprised her; it was the most openly cold she’d ever seen him be. Around other nobles, he was firm, but carefully considered. And he had been kind to her, on the surface at least. But now, watching him for the first time as he was petitioned by his subjects, she began to realise how little concern he had for the people below him.

‘Do not be fooled by his appearance into feeling sympathy,’ said Baelish, as if he heard her thoughts. ‘It was a petty argument that started his problem, moons ago, and his own stubbornness which sustains it. He will come round to my suggestion. He is as greedy and foolish as any other man.’

‘As you are, father?’

Petyr smiled at her. ‘I prefer to think on a larger scale. Though of course,’ he said, staring at her intently, ‘some personal desires are harder to overrule.’

Though it was clear what he was referring to, Sansa found herself suddenly wondering which was greater: his lust for her, or his lust for power. Perhaps they were both the same thing. Would he care for her at all if she didn’t bring him potential glory? When he pulled her close, ran his fingers down her spine, was he attracted to her, or the future she might represent?

She forced herself to stop. Sometimes, these questions became too much, and it was as if her brain ached with the weight of them. She smiled serenely, willing for a moment to let them wait.

‘Then why try, my lord?’                     

He smiled at her, a wolfish grin spreading over his face. But a sharp knock on the door soon interrupted the playful moment between them; Baelish shouted out for whoever it was to enter as he stepped away from her.

The heavy door swung open with a groan, and Maester Coleman entered, looking somehow even more harried than usual. It seemed an age since Sansa had seen him last. But his dark cloak remained as stained and ragged as ever; his thin hair still hung limp across his sweaty forehead.

‘My Lord Protector, my Lady,’ he sighed, bowing down briefly while wringing his hands. ‘I am sorry to disturb you during your audience – but, if you can, I have desperate need of your help with Lord Robert. He has had a fit, and it has mainly passed, but he won’t rest now until he has seen you, Lady Alayne. Will you come?’

He looked up at last, just as Petyr swept down from his stone dais – his annoyance obvious.

‘Is it not your duty, Maester, to heal and strengthen this child? And yet he seems to grow weaker by the day.’

‘It is the winter airs, my Lord… he must go down to the Gates of the Moon, as is the custom. To spend these months in the Eyrie will likely kill him.’ Maester Coleman sneezed, pulling out a well-used rag to wipe his face.

Sansa could tell that Petyr disliked the Maester for his ineptitude, even if it was working in his favour in the long-term. But he only paused for a moment before he spoke again – and Coleman seemed oblivious to the thinly veiled disgust in his master’s voice.

‘Lord Robert is master of the Vale now. It is his duty to remain here, and prove his strength to those who would doubt it.’ His eyes caught Sansa’s again. ‘But he is so very attached to my daughter, that I begin to wonder whether it’s a kind of love sickness that ails him!’

He gave a light chuckle, but Sansa’s heart ran cold. Suddenly the feeling was upon her that things were being set in motion, things that both scared and thrilled her. She froze, as Petyr turned to speak to her directly.

‘Have you been neglecting your charge of late, Alayne?’

Maester Coleman turned to her too, snivelling still. He had a look of dawning realisation on his face, and his eyes flickered between her and the floor, as if trying to solve a puzzle in his head. At Sansa’s failure to answer, Baelish gave a dramatic sigh, and leant over to grip her shoulder.

‘Young love, Maester Coleman, stills some lips, yet loosens others. You will know the way of it, I’m sure. In any case, Lady Alayne will be along shortly, and I’m sure your problems will be resolved as soon as she appears. ’

Coleman took the hint and eagerly hurried back through a side door, leaving Baelish and Sansa once more alone in the cold chamber. Sansa turned to him, eager to speak first, but he had begun before she had even drawn a breath.

‘Go to him, sweetling, and treat him with all the tenderness you can muster. You know what we must do, to secure our future. But first, you must convince him to stay here, in the Eyrie. This is of utmost importance.’ He turned to catch her eye, and moved his hand up to sweep a loose strand of hair behind her ear. His long fingers rested lightly on her cheek; a gesture as possessive as it was tender, or caring.

‘Why… why is he staying here?’ she whispered, and his hand dropped to his side again. ‘Should we not be descending to the Gates of the Moon? They say it is dangerous to stay here this late into winter…’

As if to illustrate her point, another burst of wind dragged itself through the thin glass, the sound like a desperate, warning moan. Baelish continued to stare at her deeply, as if contemplating whether she could be trusted. So she held his gaze, steadily, eager to prove her worth, until he finally spoke.

‘While he remains here, with us, he is ours. Yet if we descend – or worse, he leaves and we stay – he would be out of our control, and then what do you think the Lords Declarant would do?’

Sansa paused for a moment. ‘They would take him.’

Petyr smiled. ‘Yes. And as for us – well, if we were lucky, they would just starve us out.’

It was so easy to forget Sweetrobin’s role as their legitimacy, their security. But if he left, their enemies would have the perfect chance to destroy Baelish, whether through a show of force, or simply by failing to send them food. Despite their reassurances of peace, and Baelish’s negotiations and games, there was still little trust among the Lords of the Vale.

Though, of course, if Sweetrobin did leave, she could be with him - safe at the Gates, and away from this place of death and change and uncertainty. Though, would she be safe? If she chose to live as Alayne Stone, she would be of little use to the Lords Declarant; and she had no wish to return to the life of Sansa Stark just yet, used by everyone, cared for by none. The choice seemed clear.

‘So I must make him want to stay here, with us. With me…’

Petyr seemed pleased with her. ‘So much so that he would not be dragged away.’

She nodded. ‘I understand.’

Baelish turned away, drumming his fingers together. ‘And young Maester Coleman. If he could believe that separating you would be bad for the child’s health – there would be further reason for us to keep him here.’

Sansa paused, flustered. Coleman was a fool, but not an idiot – it seemed an obvious ploy, one he would see right through. ‘But how can I convince him of that? Surely he would know better?’

Petyr scoffed. ‘Coleman has little experience of requited lust, and any knowledge of love and romance is beyond his expertise. You saw his expression – he already half believes that Lord Robert is sick with love for you. In fact, I shouldn’t be surprised if he’s soon en route to the Three Sisters himself, hoping to cure his eternal cold with his first visit to the brothel.’

Sansa considered this for a while. Perhaps such petty gullibility wasn’t that difficult to believe, on second thoughts.

‘So… he could really believe that Sweetrobin’s obsession with me is harming him that much?’

‘A romantic notion for a man of learning, but underneath his chains he is but a man, and a naïve one at that. You’d be surprised what men will blame women for.’

_No_ , she thought, _no I wouldn’t_.

But with that comment Petyr leant in, and gave her a chaste parting kiss on the cheek. ‘Go to him, my dove. Sing your sweetest song - and look forward to the day he will no longer be our burden.’


	27. Debates

It wasn’t working, he was refusing to go. Somehow this possibility had not occurred to her – he was the weak-willed child, he adored her, and she was _Alayne_ (to him, anyway.) Alayne was uncontroversial, her ideas sensible and natural. Even on those rare occasions that she had a passing whim, something slightly unreasonable – lemon cakes for breakfast, mayhaps - they would also be catered for. Not because they had to be, as in Sansa’s old life, but because what harm could it do to please such a sweet young thing? Alayne inspired generosity.

But it seemed it was beyond the generosity of Lord Robert to forget how far his station was from hers. Despite Petyr’s subtlest efforts to humble him, Sweetrobin had been raised to know his every fancy should be followed, and certainly by bastards and their ilk. And he also knew that beneath Alayne’s veneer of kindness there was a firm, intractable core, and that she was not afraid to discipline him when he needed it. And so, his memories of snow castles holding fast, he was digging in his heels.

‘Why should I listen to you? I don’t want to stay here! It’s warm at the Gates, and everyone else is down there, and it’s where I always go. And they don’t shout at me either…’ He sniffled and crossed his arms.

‘But we can look after you here,’ said Sansa, her voice gentle. ‘And the journey to the Gates will be long and cold. Wouldn’t you rather stay at home with us, with your family?’

His reply was unexpected – ‘you’re not my family, I have no family, not since that singer made mother fly!’

He rarely mentioned his mother; in fact, Sansa believed this was the first time he had spoken of her in many weeks, and he certainly didn’t mention how she died. However, on many cold nights, he had found his way into her bed - complaining about nightmares in which his mother plummeted endlessly past a full moon, through the starry night sky. So she would let him rest his clammy hands on her neck, while she tried not to shiver with disgust, and eventually he would fall into a deep sleep. What was all that for, if he wouldn’t accept one simple request?

‘Of course we’re family,’ Sansa insisted, her brows furrowing in frustration. ‘You always tell me how much you love me, and I say the same to you. I want to be able to look after you, that’s all.’

‘You don’t care about me!’

‘I do, but right now you are being a very silly boy. Not the brave man I know you can be, that your mother would want you to be!’

Her voice had raised, so she took a moment to pause and calm herself. This was a seduction – not of a romantic kind, whatever Littlefinger said – but it was essential she brought him round to their side.

His eyes glimmered with tears, and it made her stomach churn.

‘What is it that makes you want to leave so badly, Lord Robert? I thought you were happier here now….’

Suddenly there was a microscopic shift in his eyes. Sansa recognised it as guilt, within that fraction of a second.

‘I’ll never be happy, never. But I want to go with my friends.’

‘We’re your friends, Sweetrobin. And we’re staying here.’

But he wouldn’t be convinced.

-

When Sansa returned to her room, she realised her face was wet with tears. She hadn’t even felt her eyes water, nor did she feel like she wanted to cry– and yet here they were, streaming in spite of her. She wiped her cheeks with the pads of her fingers, looking around her chamber as if something there could relieve the dull, empty ache of failure that washed over her. But there wasn’t, so instead she shed down to her chemise, pulled the heavy curtains across around her window, and crawled into bed.

Her hand dropped down between her legs, seeking something to awaken her body, to cancel out the hollow numbness she felt in her chest. She rolled her fingers gently over the lips of her sex, letting the small fire in the pit of her stomach kindle and grow. Fantasies and memories started to come to her mind, obscene images, the sounds that most aroused her. The groans of men as they came, their last vestiges of civilisation stripped away; the feel of her hard nipple pinched between Myranda Royce’s fingers, Petyr’s eyes as they watched her writhing on his desk, completely bared to him. She found the centre of her pleasure, swollen now as her obscene thoughts gathered pace, mingling together into an orgy of memory.

A knock on her door stilled her hand, but she felt too sleepily lethargic to withdraw it completely. She didn’t turn towards the door when the second knock came, nor when then the handle rattled; but when it was followed by Littlefinger’s voice, she dropped her feet to the floor.

‘Alayne,’ came his muffled voice. ‘Unlock your door, I have to speak with you.’

She stood slowly, her naked body only illuminated by the beam of afternoon sun which peeked through the thick curtains. Her body felt heavy and warm, as if her wasted morning trying to ingratiate herself to Sweetrobin had drained it of all energy. She moved behind the door, pressing her cheek against the wood as she leant against it.

‘Are you alone?’, she whispered.

A pregnant pause. ‘Yes. Now let me in.’

She obeyed, moving behind the door as she opened it, hiding herself from anyone in the corridor. But her chamber was in a largely unused part of the castle, and Petyr was indeed alone when he stepped into the room, twisting the key in the lock behind him.

He first stared ahead at the window, looking over the dishevelled bed at the reason for the darkness, before he turned towards her. His eyes widened at her nudity, too startled to speak at first. When he did, his voice was hoarse.

‘Alayne, cover yourself.’ She noticed how interchangeable her two names had become to him; one day she was Sansa, and another Alayne. She made no attempt to do as he asked.

His eyebrows lowered in anger, and he stepped towards her. ‘Alayne. I’ve come from Sweetrobin’s room, where he is bawling like a baby, saying you were cruel to him. Have you learnt nothing? I thought you had him under control?’

She didn’t speak as he moved to fetch her something to wear, but she could feel her lethargy being replaced with a sharp, stabbing wave of anger. When she heard him behind her again, she turned and wrenched the robe he had fetched from his hands, and before she knew the thought had even occurred to her, she had slapped him across the face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I got a bit anti-GoT after the last series, and just lost all will to continue writing this. But a few inspiring tumblr gifsets later...
> 
> Well here I am, trying to remember what I'm sure was an amazing plan for this story. Bear with me guys!


	28. The Beginning

The sound of it seemed to echo through the room, and Sansa knew she should be wary. But where her nakedness should have made her feel vulnerable, she felt strong. The blood was pulsing between her legs, her heart pounding a steady, heavy rhythm.

But his stillness gave her pause. She had thought he would slap her back, mayhaps, or turn and leave. She wanted to be distracted, shocked from her reverie by a fierce response. But instead his hand gripped her upper arm, sliding upwards across her bare skin until it wrapped softly around her throat. Perhaps it told of what she had already endured, that this failed to shock her at all.

‘Do you know, sweetling,’ he whispered, as his fingertips drummed against her bare neck, ‘how many whores I have known to disappear after behaviour like that?’ His grip tightened for a moment as he urged her backwards, towards the stone wall beside the door.

Still silent, Sansa let herself be pushed back with him, her feet tangling in the silk of the discarded robe as she moved in the dim light. Close up, she could see a red mark beginning to burn across Petyr’s face, a face that remained impassive and seemingly unconcerned. Only from experience could she see the restrained anger deep within his stony eyes. His hand moved to tangle in the strands of hair around her collar bone, a habit of his which had not escaped her.

‘Usually we find them later,’ he continued. ‘Some in the rivers, ditches. Some very clumsily disposed of indeed, and then we would have to clean them up. But these are busy men who do these things. With little time for those who do not know how to play the game.’

He pressed all his weight against her then, pushing her body hard enough against the stone to make her gasp for breath. She relished the feel of his body pressing in to hers from chest to thighs. Yet her mind still felt detached even in his forceful embrace, as if she was removed from it all by her own ill mood. A grey cloud hovered over her since her failure with Sweetrobin, though she was unsure why it had affected her so heavily.

The room was silent apart from the sounds of their breathing, both deep but even, until Baelish spoke again, a warm whisper against her cheek in the cold air:

‘I thought we were past the point when I had to make things so explicit, sweetling, but I will say it plain: we do not have time for you to spend days in bed in a useless malaise, waiting for the pieces to move to your liking. We must move them with whatever wits and powers we possess. Then you will be able to rid yourself of simpering fools like Sweetrobin, and all those who are simpletons but would have us as their servants.’

And suddenly she realised the despondency she had felt, and it was like a candle had been lit within her, as that empty feeling transfigured into something else within an instant. All the abuse and pain she had received at the hands of foolish men - she had never known till now that it stayed, that it had festered somewhere within her. Sweetrobin’s childishness, his moods, had broken a dam of sorts, and behind it was all the anger, the despair she had ever repressed to please someone who didn’t deserve it. The exhaustion of taking it all, and giving back nothing but a sweet song, had finally exhausted her.

Once the dam had broken, she couldn’t bring herself to summon one more false smile.  She had lost a last bit of innocence, or perhaps ignorance; her last expectation of the goodwill of others. But now she understood it, she could feel it moving into a different place within her, new knowledge around which to build her world view. It was no longer a drain to know this, but a fuel. _How long did they think I could stand it? To have no identity of my own, to always be pretending?_ All these boys and men, demanding smiles, appeasement, a fairy tale in response to their violence and pettiness.

They were kissing now, Petyr’s lips pressed against hers, his tongue finding a way between her parted lips. She wrapped her fingers around his neck, weaving her arms around his, but the kiss was soft, tender; Petyr’s hunger for her restrained but clearly present. This was one of the things she had grown to admire about him. He could be so gentle with her, but she never felt he was weak, or lost in his lust - he was never mindless. There was always the presence within, his cunning mind at work, and it made her feel oddly safe to know what lay behind his unassuming exterior. She had only known this feeling with him, the feeling that he – they – were always in control, even when events and people shifted around them.

‘I know what you are feeling, sweet,’ he whispered, as if he could hear her thoughts. His cock strained against his breeches, pressing against her bare crotch, and she moaned quietly into the air. ‘You feel it is too slow, you can’t pretend any longer, you need justice now. You want those who’ve betrayed you to suffer.' He shifted, and so quietly it was almost inaudible, he continued. 'But trust that day will come. Together we will rule.’

Sansa felt a brief flicker of shame at how Petyr’s speech affected her, such a rare statement of his true intentions, and she strained to remain upright as her knees trembled. Something new, some better understanding of herself was coming into view, and not only did it make her mind clearer, but oh how it aroused her. Petyr could bring out her most hidden instincts, and reshape them into ambitions, tools. Dreams within her grasp, if only she was bold enough to take them.

And yes, sometimes the pawns would not move as she wanted them to, would not do what was wise. But then they would find a new path for those pawns, to send them where they needed to be… or they would be removed from the board.  She saw it now, no limits to the things she might do.

She could carry on now. Maintaining the façade of girlish innocence long after it had been taken from her. She could smile and whimper for a little longer, because someone else knew it was a lie, and they could share in the weakness of those who were so easily fooled.

And if he called her Alayne sometimes – though it was her true name that he groaned into her hair now - it didn’t matter, nor did it matter that she felt the name Littlefinger suited him better than Baelish. Because they knew each other more deeply than just names, and the small untruths they sometimes told meant little. She knew she could hurt this man – she had deceived him already, made use of his longing for her. He had hurt her too, used her for his own ends while failing to understand what she must endure to pursue his ambitions. But theirs was not a fairy tale romance. And they could protect each other because they understood things about the other that the rest of the world couldn’t see. And what more was there? For life was not a song.

Baelish moved away to undo his doublet and breeches, their studs and laces having left imprints in Sansa’s skin. Once they were loose, and his hardness no longer constrained, she pulled him back towards her. He quickly returned to covering her exposed neck with wet, passionate kisses, a hand pawing at her left breast. She tangled her fingers into his hair to push him down towards her chest, her tightened nipples aching, in need of his tongue’s attention.

He obeyed with a few licks and kisses across both breasts, then her ribs and stomach as he slowly dropped to his knees. Gently he pushed apart her thighs so he could taste the core of her. He first kissed her softly, before pressing more earnestly with his tongue at the hardened bead between her lips.

‘Petyr,’ she sighed, her eyes half closed, ‘I need to tell you something.’ She looked down, and saw the flash of his white eyes looking up at her, having halted his attentions to listen to what she would say. He sensed the shift within her; that the cloud had lifted, and something more knowing, useful, had taken its place.

‘Yes my love?’ he said, quickly returning to nuzzle at that sweet spot with enough skill to make her claw at his scalp.

‘I will do anything you ask, to have them all like this,’ - she stopped to moan as he slid a finger within her, then another.

He pulled away just long enough to ask: ‘Like what?’

 ‘Oh Petyr - to have them all on their knees.’

 

\- THE END -

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had a few vague plans for this story, but decided if I was going to take over a year between each chapter, I should probably wrap it up. Thank you so much to everyone who has commented and given kudos, I really appreciate the feedback and it's such a confidence boost to know people enjoyed the story!
> 
> An epilogue may follow, hopefully in less than a year...


	29. Epilogue

\- EPILOGUE -

Sansa looked into the mirror, studying the image she saw before her. Slowly, but also all at once, it had become unfamiliar - a stranger’s face. Who was this, with her red hair flowing over her shoulders? Who was this, stood in an embroidered wedding gown, wolves roaring from the cloth? Try as she might, she struggled to connect to the reflection. Fingers reached out to stroke the glass – she felt like another girl was on the other side, pulling Sansa’s arm on a string. That face was not her own, that body removed from hers.

She had been so many girls in the last few years, so many women. A virgin, then a temptress; a victim, then a criminal; an innocent girl, and then a woman who’d seen too much. She had been a naïve child until, without any warning, childhood had been wrenched from her grasp, before she’d even realised what it was. But she had not felt grown-up then, like she’d thought she would. Childhood had left a hole in her chest she’d struggled to fill.

Now she looked into the face of a gentle woman, someone who looked as though she’d come through her life unscathed, showing no signs of the torture she’d endured. Her features were gentle, serene. Sansa pulled a face in the mirror, sticking out her tongue, smiling – anyone would believe that happiness came naturally to her.

It didn’t though. She had to work at it. All her moments of triumph and petty glories were never simple, they were twisted knots she had to struggle to unravel. And after all of it, she was happiest when she saw the adoring gaze of a man she suspected of both ruining and rescuing her. Those eyes, usually so inscrutable, watching in disbelief as she let him inside her, riding him until his hands crushed her hips, and he came, shuddering beneath her. And she was happy too when he bent her over a table, pulling on her hair as he gathered it between his fingers. She'd been happy all those times she'd called him father in front of the other Lords, knowing that hours later, one of them would be on their knees in front of the other.

In a few hours she would be married, and soon she would be a widow. Beyond that, she could only be certain of that girl in the mirror, smiling back at her; and the man who tonight would give her away, but would never let her go.


End file.
